


Red Robin and the Hood

by momoejaku



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Depression and PTSD Strike Again, Everyone Is Having a Really Bad Day, Gen, Giving tam and the batgirls the attention and respect and character depth they deserve, Jason is a nuisance but Helpful When it Counts (i.e. when Tim is about to Die), Prudence aka miss feistypants, Red², Spoiler: Bruce is Alive, The Dynamic Anti-Duo, Tim Drake is Actually Pretty Badass... but at what cost?, Where in the World is Bruce Wayne?, where is Z's gotdam fanbase I would die for Z
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momoejaku/pseuds/momoejaku
Summary: Bruce Wayne is dead.Superman brought back his body, and the family mourned him, holding a quiet funeral in secret so that the legacy of Batman could live on. But not everyone has been able to put him to rest.Reeling from the loss of Bruce, his identity as Robin and his trust in his family, Tim Drake sets out on a personal quest that will take him across the world to prove what he knows in his heart: that Bruce Wayne is alive.Though intending to make his way alone, Tim reluctantly accepts help from his predecessor, Jason Todd, who knows from personal experience that death is not always as final as it seems.Together, they are Red Robin and the Hood.





	1. Chapter 1

‘Tim… Tim!’ 

Dick let his arms fall limply to his side as he watched Tim’s retreating figure in silence, regretting everything. Everything he had said, everything he had done since they had put Bruce’s body into a coffin and buried him in the ground. 

Every fibre of his being wanted to reach out, to chase after Tim, plead with him to stay and tell him that _it would be okay_. But it was as if his feet were cemented to the ground, as if his mind were rebelling against him, as if time had stopped and everything was slow-motion, light-headed sickness around him. His chest was so full of that numb pain, the pressure, that it was all he could do just to _inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale_.

_‘Dammit,’_ he swore at himself through gritted teeth and ran a hand through his hair. 

‘ _Tt._ ’ Damian’s smug voice scoffed from behind him. ‘Well, I say _good riddance._ ’

‘Go to your room, Damian,’ Dick snapped, his voice cold, harsher than he had intended. ‘And don’t say another _word_ to Tim.’ 

He held his breath as the boy brushed past him with a scowl, and followed Tim up the stairs, his small hands balled up in fists; the small, wounded glance giving Dick yet another reason to hate himself. Yet another person he had hurt.

Dick slumped down at the computer, exhausted, massaging his forehead, and damned himself for not being able to do anything right. 

He hadn’t known that Gotham would erupt like a volcano in the aftermath of Batman’s disappearance. He hadn’t expected that he would be forced to go against Bruce’s direct orders, and take up the cape and cowl. He hadn’t known that the job of training and raising Bruce’s ten-year-old son would fall to him, become his responsibility. He hadn’t known that Tim would be so torn-apart over the loss of his role as Robin…

_But I should have._

Glancing over at the display cases, he found himself staring at Bruce’s first suit. Staring, like he had for hours before finally caving in and pulling that mask over his face, before Alfred had convinced him it was the right thing to do. It was a presence that haunted him every time he put on the suit now, every time he drove the batmobile, every night he swung above the Gotham skyscrapers and perched amongst the dark gargoyles. And he knew, that ghost would follow him to his own grave. 

‘If you could only see us now, Bruce,’ he murmured into the dank emptiness of the cave. 

‘He’d have a thing or two to say about _me_ being here, that’s for sure.’

Dick reached out for his eskrima sticks instinctively, his body tense as he stood cautiously and glared at the intruder that stepped out of the shadows, their hands raised half-heartedly. 

‘Jason,’ Dick breathed, unable to keep the surprise and uncertainty out of his tone. He drew back from his defensive stance, but kept his distance, unsure of how he should go about this. 

It had been more than a year since the family had seen Jason, and as the artificial light of the cave illuminated his face, Dick couldn’t help but notice how much _better_ he looked. Calmer. In control. There was still anger in his eyes, distrust, but that had always been there for Jason. 

‘You handled that nicely,’ Jason observed cooly, walking over to the medical table and playing with one of the surgical blades absentmindedly. ‘The “passing” of the proverbial baton that’s really no longer yours to pass. But I’m sure Tim will forgive you… in a few years.’

‘Why are you here, Jason?’

Jason bristled at the bluntness of Dick’s tone, slamming the knife down into the table.

‘You know  _damn well_ why I'm here, Grayson,' he said, fiercely, his eyes burning with that all-too-familiar, latent anger. Only this time, the grief cut through; reaching out, in spite of everything, to bridge the wide gap that lay between them.  

Dick hesitated. ‘I didn’t think… you’d want to see it. You didn’t come to the funeral.’

‘I didn’t think I was _invited_ ,’ Jason threw back, attempting lightness, but ending up with resentment. 

The two of them looked away from each other, down to the floor, at their own hands, the unspoken reality of this family’s broken, untended state being left to fester in both their minds.

‘You’re right,’ Jason broke the silence, the softness of his voice catching Dick off-guard. ‘I didn’t want to see it. I wasn’t ready.’ He forced himself to face Dick again. ‘But I’m ready now.’

His eyes and heart hardened, Dick looked at Jason, trying to read him; to see beyond the tough-exterior Jason had always flaunted to hide his insecurities, his feelings. Trying to see more of that grief that had escaped through the cracks not a moment before. 

Finally, he let out a deep, tired breath and nodded.  Setting down his eskrima sticks, Dick touched Jason’s shoulder as he walked past him. 

‘Come with me.’

* * *

They walked up to the cemetery gates in silence, trudging through muddy grass and stones. Gotham had been in mourning for the past week, with rain and clouds and grey skies that seemed to close in around you and press like a weight against your heart. The air was heavy with the scent of it, and small drops rolled of rain down the unimposing grave as Jason and Dick stood in front of it. 

It seemed both fitting and yet so deeply insulting to his memory, that Bruce Wayne’s grave should be so plain, so _normal_. That it should be left nameless, with only a meaningless, common epitaph speaking of heroism and sacrifice and _rest_ to mark where his body lay. That no one else should know the truth, of how truly great a man he was. How truly great his _sacrifice_ was.

His face darkened, Jason he knelt in front of Bruce Wayne’s headstone in silence and touched the words of the epitaph lightly with trembling fingers, tracing over the grooves as if he couldn’t see the letters. And he laughed, an empty, mirthless laugh that mingled with tears; bent over the earth and cowering as the pain set in, his hands digging into soil.

Dick stood there beside him, expressionless, the old wounds throbbing as he watched Jason break down just as he had. Just as they all had, in their own way. They were all hurting, broken. Missing something that had been an irreplaceable foundation for all their lives.

‘You know the worst thing about all of this?’ Jason asked no one, asked the wind, asked the grave. ‘I never got the chance to make things right between us. And I know this is fucking selfish... to wish he was still alive just so I could ease my conscience. But the last memory Bruce has of me, _the very last thing he remembered_ , is that I tried to kill him. I’ll never know how he felt about me, in the end.’

‘He loved you Jason. That never changed, no matter what.’

Jason didn't respond. He let out a shaky breath and, just like that, the moment was over, passed. Dick averted his eyes as Jason stood and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hiding any trace of sorrow, of weakness. 

‘Are you sure the body is his?'

‘We ran all the tests… He—‘ Dick’s voice caught in his throat. ‘He’s gone for good this time.’

‘So was I,’ Jason returned, his voice level, bitter. ‘Until some disruption of the space-time continuum brought me back to life and I got thrown into a Lazarus Pit.’ 

‘Tim said the same thing,’ Dick conceded, suddenly tired, weary of having to question things that had been so certain before, things that had been final, absolute. Things like death.

They both stared at the grave, as if giving Bruce the chance to break out of it with his scowl and gruff voice. 

‘Does he think Bruce is still alive?’ Jason asked quietly, probing.

Dick did not respond immediately, mulling over their conversations, how quiet and withdrawn Tim had become, how his frustration had seemed to go deeper than the simple fact that Dick had taken away his identity as Robin. 

He had assumed it had all been conjectural, their conversations about Bruce. It made sense, especially after what had happened to Clark Kent and Jason, and others in the superhero community, to ask these questions. To be absolutely certain that Bruce was, in fact, dead. 

But what if it had been more for Tim? What if, in spite of all the evidence, the body, the deep set conviction that everyone else seemed to share, Tim was in denial of Bruce’s death?

Tim had continued to press the issue, to the point where even Dick had felt he couldn’t take it anymore. 

_He’s gone, Tim,_ he had said, right before Tim had stormed off. _You have to accept it._

‘I don’t know,’ Dick finally told Jason, looking up at the bare trees against the grey sky and watching as a bird land on one of the branches, singing mournfully into the wind. ‘All I know is that I have a duty to Gotham now, and part of that duty involves Damian. I need to keep an eye on him, to keep him near me at all times, give him an outlet for his… his, tendencies. His upbringing has left him with a lot of anger, a lot of trauma that needs to be weeded out and replaced with something more than fear and respect. He needs to be Robin. He needs it, more than Tim does.’

Jason considered this, a brooding look crossing his face. ‘I don’t disagree with you, Dick. But it’s almost as if you’ve suddenly pulled the rug out from under Tim’s feet by doing this.’ 

‘I know... I’ll need to make it up to him when he’s not as angry with me. But, right now,’ he braced himself for the inevitable place this was going to take them, but he could avoid it no longer, ‘we need to talk about you, Jason.’ 

A wry smile crossed Jason’s face as he looked back towards the Manor. ‘Are you going to turn me in, Dick?’ he asked, his voice masked with calm, but Dick could hear the dangerous undertone that lay beneath it, noticed as Jason’s body grew tense. 

‘No. I’m not going to turn you in... not unless you give me good reason too. I’m not Bruce, but I will honour his legacy, Jason. I won’t let you run around Gotham, dealing your version of justice out to everyone you feel deserves it.’

Jason nodded, and Dick knew he had been expecting this conversation to happen. ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about me and my "version of justice.” I’m not staying in Gotham, I know when I’m not welcome.’

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but Jason held up his hand with a frustrated sigh, stopping him. 

‘Look. You have no idea where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing this past year. I don’t blame you for not trusting me. But I’ve had time to work through some things; with myself, with the world… hell, with the fact that I’m alive when I’m supposed to be dead. I’ll never be “better” again, and I’ll never agree with Bruce’s way of doing things, but I’m not the same person I was a year ago.’

As he listened to Jason, Dick found himself wondering what Bruce would do, what he would say in this situation. Would he ask Jason to stay? To keep a close eye on him, to try and lead him down the right path again? Would he forgive the past, give Jason the benefit of the doubt, give him a second chance... or would he leave that to the law, to the court, the system?

_No._ he reminded himself firmly.  _I'm not Bruce._   _Jason is not my responsibility. Not now. I need to deal with this in my own way._

‘I want to believe you, Jason,’ he said, his voice measured. ‘Please don’t give me a reason to doubt that instinct.’ 

With one last pointed glance at Bruce’s grave, Jason turned away from Dick and started back down the path that wound its way through the gravestones, throwing up a hand in farewell. 

‘Take care of Gotham, Batman,’ he whispered, quickly shoving his shaking hands in the pockets of his leather jacket as he thought of the headstone, the engraving, the coffin… 

The image of Bruce, in his burial suit, frantically yelling, clawing his way out of the wood and earth and slow decay of death, seared into his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how well I've executed this, but chapter 1 is meant to have given you the feeling that this story isn't about Tim by focussing on Dick and Jason and their response to Bruce's death. 
> 
> But rest assured... this is Tim's story.


	2. Chapter 2

The tapping of computer keys echoed into the emptiness of the cold, dusty room where Tim Drake sat, hunched over the old monitor. The derelict warehouse had been condemned years ago and neglected, making it the perfect place for a safe house, one that had been kept secret from nearly everyone, especially family. The papers strewn across the floor, boxes stacked precariously on the floor, and loose wires hanging from the ceiling betrayed its months of utter neglect; he hadn’t expected to come back to it.

Tim looked down at the shaking hands as they typed furiously on the keyboard, and realised they were his own. He paused and drew his hands back for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to regain some sense of control over his own body, mind and emotions. It felt as if he had been running like a computer program; so focussed on these simple tasks, the logistics, the basic steps, that he had forgotten how much he wanted to just crawl into the corner of the room and let the voices take over. All of them, the mental barrage of voices, both real and imagined, only needed him to sit still, to slow down for just one second so they could get their foot into the door and break into his mind, break him down. 

He breathed in, counting to ten before exhaling and fixing his eyes back on the screen as he slowly, one key at at time, continued to set up firewalls and protocols that would both cover up his tracks here and make it very, very, difficult for anyone in the batfamily, or his friends, to track him down.

“INCOMING CALL… SANDSMARK, CASSANDRA.” the automated computer voice told him.

‘Disconnect.’ Tim said numbly, glancing over at his Robin suit, now stowed away in a glass display case. 

‘Disconnect,’ he closed his eyes and repeated to himself, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. 

‘Dis—connect…’ he frowned into the sudden stillness, suddenly alert, his body rigid. 

_Behind you._

Tim swivelled in his chair, his well-aimed kick connecting with the intruder’s stomach, extracting a satisfying grunt of pain and throwing them half-way across the room into a pile of boxes. Tim snatched up his bo staff and moved forward quickly, holding it under the intruder’s chin before he could get up.

‘ _Jason?’_ Tim said through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing, unable to keep the surprise and utter contempt out of his voice.

The expressionless figure lifted his hands up cautiously, and Tim was sure that he was smiling underneath his red helmet. ‘ _Hnn_ … that’s gonna hurt in the morning.’

‘How did you find this place?’ Tim pressed, coarsely. 

He felt suddenly exposed, unsafe, half-expecting Dick and the little demon brat—no, _Robin_ — to come bursting out of a closet somewhere. But then again, this was Jason, and as far as Tim was aware, nobody had seen or heard from him in over a year. It was highly unlikely that he was suddenly working with the Dick just because Bruce had supposedly died. 

_Supposedly._

‘I thought taking out your security system would have at least given me the element of surprise,’ Jason muttered, cocking his head to the side in a disinterested sort of way. ‘Would you mind taking your fancy stick away from my larynx?’

‘Answer the question, Jason. How did you find me.’

Jason eyed Tim from behind his helmet, noting his tense stance, the cold, unyielding expression, his mouth a thin line across his face; there would be no negotiating with Tim Drake today. He sighed and, with slow, exaggerated movements, reached up to remove his red helmet, running a hand through his messy, dark hair.

Tim shifted but did not relent his staff, keeping it firmly in place mere centimetres away from Jason’s neck. 

‘I talked to the Spoiler,’ Jason explained. ‘I heard you two go back and figured, if anyone knew about a secret bunker that you didn’t want the family to know about, it would be her.’

Jason saw the small look of betrayal, of hurt, that crossed Tim’s eyes, and actually felt sorry for him; but it was too late to feel guilty about any of this. So he pressed on. 

‘Dick had asked Stephanie to talk with you, Tim. Everyone is worried you’ve gone crazy… and it took me a long time to convince her to tell me where you were.’

‘What did you do to her?’ Tim spat, jerking his bo staff back up towards Jason’s throat.

‘—Easy.’ Jason said as calmly as he could, unable to stop himself from glaring at Tim as the frustration built up in his chest. ‘ _I didn’t do anything to her._ She told me about this place of her own free will and volition after some... verbal persuasion. There were no threats made. You can call her and check if you want to.’ 

Tim said nothing and Jason let out a deep breath, impatient. 

‘Look, I get it. The last time we met, I kidnapped you to get at Bruce. I wasn’t in the best mental or emotional state to make good decisions, but that doesn’t excuse my actions.’ He paused, searching Tim’s eyes carefully, intentionally. ‘I’m sorry I involved you.’

‘Saying “sorry” doesn’t change anything, Jason,’ Tim answered, his voice cold. ‘The last time you were in Gotham you killed dozens of people. You almost killed Bruce.’

‘I was never going to kill Bruce,’ Jason countered. 

He paused to choose his words, knowing that he was treading on thin ice, that he had to be careful with what he said here— because his words could either condemn or redeem him. Or both. 

‘I won’t lie, Tim. I still believe the people I killed, the crime-lords and the drug dealers, they deserved to die. They escaped a broken system, one that has loopholes and flaws and doesn’t always work. I don’t regret their deaths, but I do regret the way in which I went about it. I was trying to prove a point to Bruce, instead of focussing on bringing bad men to justice. I lost sight of what I stood for, _who_ I stand for… but I won’t make that mistake again.’

Tim was in no mood to argue morality, to nit-pick and compare notes on their differing definitions of “justice”… but even as he listened to Jason, he could tell that something _had_ changed since his last appearance in Gotham. And he knew that same intuition that was telling him Bruce was alive, the one he had tried so hard to ignore, to put out of his mind and just grieve like everyone else… it was telling him to give Jason a chance now.

But no matter what change Jason had gone through, no matter what his misguided intuition was telling him, Tim sure as hell wasn’t going to give him his trust.

He lowered his bo staff, but kept it in front of him, ready to pull it back up if need be.

‘Dick must be really desperate, if he resorted to recruiting _you_ to find me,’ he probed, deciding it was better to make sure Jason was still rogue, to find out where he stood with the other side of the family. 

_The “sane” side._

Jason laughed and stood, wandering around the room with light interest.  ‘Oh, no. Dick definitely doesn’t know I’m here. The only one who knows is Stephanie.’ 

He went over to the desk where Tim had been working on his new utility belt and throwing discs, and picked one of them up, inspecting the insignia that had been carved into it. 

‘Why would she agree with any of this,’ Tim demanded, watching him warily. ‘She knows about you. About what you did.’

‘She also knows that I died,’ Jason said cooly. He set down the disc and turned around to face Tim. ‘And now I’m alive. She gave you up because I told her the exact same thing I’m going to tell you… if you’ll just shut up for a minute and let me say it.’

He waited for Tim to say something, to stop him, to finally shout at him to _get the hell out of my safe house_ , but he did not. He simply stood there in silence with his fists clenched at his side, and so Jason took that as an invitation to continue. 

‘I don’t know you, Tim. But I’ve heard lots of things _about_ you. I’ve heard that you’re smart, that you can match even Bruce’s detective skills, and that you’ve lost a lot of friends and family over the years. And that last bit is the only thing anyone seems to be focussing on right now.’

Tim sat down and looked away from Jason. At this point, he didn’t even care that he was talking to someone who had effectively worked as a hitman and taken control of the Gotham crime rings. It seemed that the only people he could talk to these days were people who had been supposed dead; and talking to Jason, as unpleasant as it was, still beat talking to Bruce’s grave.

‘Bruce was the last straw?’ he suggested, his voice bitterly sarcastic, as if he were self-diagnosing. ‘His death broke me. I’m emotionally compromised and coping with my grief by deluding myself into thinking that he’s still alive.’

‘That’s what everyone _else_ thinks, Tim.’

‘Maybe they’re right,’ Tim threw in, his voice tired, doubtful again. 

Jason pursed his lips, watching his “replacement” carefully, trying to suss him out, giving Tim a moment to work through his thoughts before he spoke again. 

‘I don’t think so. And, deep down, I don’t think _you_ believe that either. Not for one second. _I think_ , that they’re just as emotionally compromised as you are, and that they’re refusing to listen to whatever intuition it is that’s telling you Bruce isn’t dead. That he’s alive. And I speak from experience when I say that, death isn’t always as final as we make it out to be.’

‘What is your _point,_ Jason,’ Tim voice rose slightly, his patience worn too thin, unable to keep his emotions in check any longer. ‘Why are you here?’

‘You’re running away, and I think you’re right to. But you don’t have to do this by yourself.’

And there it was. 

Tim opened his mouth to respond, to tell Jason to leave, to tell him that he needed to be alone. But the words evaded him, his mind suddenly blank, all thoughts and inner turmoil dissipating as he replayed Jason’s words over and over to himself. 

_You don’t have to do this by yourself._

Was it ironic that the only person who believed him was the one who had also been outcast from the family for his beliefs, the one who had left a hole for Tim to fill, and the only reason Tim had ever become Robin? The one, who was walking proof that someone could die and still come back to life.

Tim had never believed in fate, had always been sceptical of the idea that your path was set out before you and all you had to do was follow it.  It was your choices, not fate, that charted the course for your life. Simple as that. Life hits you with an uppercut, and you can choose to either stay down or get back up again. Life deals you out a hand, and how you choose to play it is up to you. 

He couldn’t believe in fate because the existence of fate denied you control, free-will. It meant that nothing you did ever mattered, because no matter what you did fate was there, pulling your strings like a puppet until you lay in a grave with a tombstone and wilting flowers like every other human in the world.  But now, with his intuition telling him Bruce was alive, with Jason seeking him out… it felt like fate had finally cornered him. 

And Tim Drake hated being driven into a corner.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Tim admitted to the room. ‘I have no real, solid evidence. I’m just going with my gut. I’m acting on a feeling that no one else seems to have. Sometimes, I think maybe they’re all right about me, maybe I _am_ deluded… but most of the time, I just don’t care anymore.’

Jason said nothing for a long time. He simply sat there, his gaze boring into him as if he were trying to cut through his words to discover the truth. To find the real Tim Drake.

Finally, he stood and picked up his helmet, walking over to the metal ladder that he had come down. He went to climb it, but then stopped and turned back to face Tim. 

‘I don’t need evidence. There is no evidence to explain why I’m alive today. It just happened. Simple as that. And that’s good enough for me. If you think Bruce isn’t dead, then I believe you. But you can’t keep doubting yourself. You need to decide once and for all _what you really think_ , and I’ll be waiting for you when you do.’

Then, without another word, Jason disappeared up the ladder. 

Tim sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. Loathe as he was to admit it, he knew Jason was right. He didn’t have the time or energy to continually doubt himself. If he gave his doubt even a millimetre more space, if he entertained it again, he knew it would overcome him. There was too much uncertainty pressing against him from the outside, too many people who did not trust him… he could only trust in himself. 

But could he trust Jason too?

He walked back to the table and picked up the same throwing disc that Jason had been holding. A note with a number scrawled out in messy handwriting was stuck to it, and Tim memorised it before tearing it up. 

‘Computer, activate Icarus Protocol, five minutes,’ he said as he pulled the cowl over his face. 

“ACKNOWLEDGED.”

* * *

Tim knew Dick was calling out his name as he left the cave, he could hear his voice in the back of his head and even as he pressed his hands over his ears he couldn’t stop it. His mind was emptied of normal stream of constant thoughts, no strategies no theories no deductions… just the anger.

It was as if every pent up emotion he had clung to throughout his life, had suppressed, suddenly came tumbling out of him as he yelled, as that white-blinding anger drove him forward stumbling, grasping at whatever was near him. 

A table flung over. A vase broken against the portraits on the wall. The paintings came tumbling to the floor and Tim Drake slid down against the wall, panting, leaning his head against his hand wearily. The numbness set in again. 

‘This isn’t happening…’ he repeated into the sudden stillness, looking down at his hand, detached,his brow furrowing as he watched blood drip down from the cuts on his hand to the carpet below. He held it up and continued to stare at it, focussing on it, mentally noting that he could feel no pain and wondering if that was something to worry about. Then, something caught his eye on the opposite wall. Recognition hit him, shattering over his mind like glass. He dropped his hand and tried to to look away, to look anywhere else, told himself he was hallucinating, it wasn’t real… 

The eyes of Bruce Wayne stared back at him from one of the portraits, cold, imploring.

Tim forced himself to stare back into the portrait’s eyes, to look beyond the period clothing, beyond the paint, beyond the fact that he knew he must be going crazy, and he let out a deep breath.

‘He’s alive.’ he said to the broken glass and overturned table. 

A short laugh of disbelief and shock escaped his throat as he ran a hand through his hair, still looking at that portrait. 

_‘Bruce is alive…’_


	3. Chapter 3

Tim stood in the shadowed corner of the Real Casa de Correos and watched as people meandered through the grey, dreary streets of Madrid, their voices loud and grating against his ears. He pressed a shaky hand against his temple, trying to stop the buzzing, the light-headedness of jet-lag and stress and anxiety pounding against his brain like a sledgehammer. It didn’t do any good. Glancing up at the clock that graced the top of the white stone and brick of the city hall, he tried to force himself to relax, focussing instead on his breathing and watching the clock-hand with each second that passed.

_He’s late._

Suddenly, he tensed as he caught sight of someone weaving their way through the crowded Plaza de la Puerta del Sol— the busiest square in Madrid. 

It was him.

Jason blended in well with the civilians in his leather jacket and shades, his posture relaxed, he strode through the plaza as if he knew exactly where he was headed and what he was doing. Experience gained, Tim suspected, from the days before he made it back to Gotham and the past year when he had been in hiding, doing god knows what. 

‘I see we’re taking the whole “hide in plain sight” thing a bit literally here aren’t we?’ Jason commented when he stood in front of Tim.

‘We’re not staying,’ he answered under his breath. 

Tim turned on him without another word and began walking down the street in silence, ignoring Jason as he caught up to him and matched his pace. 

They walked for a long time, cutting through streets and back-alleys that had been memories on maps just the night before as the sky grew dark above them. Tim hadn’t had time to scout it out so they were taking a risk, but it was clear that they wouldn’t be bothered behind the seedy bar. The brick walls thumped with the bass from stereos and loud, angry shouts that drifted above it occasionally: there was a futbal game on, nobody would be coming back here with the trash for a while. 

Jason crossed his arms and eyed Tim as he silently set his bag down. ‘To be honest, I’m surprised you’ve finally called me,’ he ventured. ‘You’ve been globe-trotting for a few weeks… why call me now?’

Tim’s lips pursed. ’Because I’m not getting anywhere. And you’re the only one who believes me, so I'm stuck with you.’

Jason grinned widely. ‘You need help.’

‘I _need_ a second opinion,’ Tim corrected him irritably, regretting everything already. ‘To make sure that my method, data and findings are… sound. That I’m not—’

‘—Going crazy?’ Jason suggested. 

Tim said nothing, but Jason could see it in the lines crossing his face, the look in his dark, sunken eyes: Tim didn’t look good, and he knew it, was frightening even himself, still questioning his own sanity. Jason didn’t press the issue.

‘So, you’ve found something?’

‘I’m _looking_ for something,’ Tim snapped. ‘If Bruce is out there somewhere, he would leave clues, a trace, would find ways to tell us where or when he is…’

Jason’s brow furrowed. ‘“When?”’

‘…I just need to find the first piece,’ Tim ignored him, continuing. ‘After that I should be able to follow his trail.’

‘Okay,’ Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes. ‘So you’ve hit a dead end. Where do we pick up?’

‘With what we know. How good are you with those?’ Tim pointed to his jacket where Jason was concealing his guns. They were well-hidden, but Jason wasn’t surprised that Tim had been able to pick up on them. 

‘I’m no Deadshot, but I’ve got a pretty good aim.’

‘Show me.’

Jason looked at Tim for a moment before pulling out one of his guns, weighing it up in his hand thoughtfully before he aimed at the end of the alleyway. Shards of green glass went flying as he shot an empty beer bottle that lay a couple dozen feet away, a flickering street lamp sparked and went dark. Finally, he aimed at Tim. 

His last bullet sped right past Tim’s temple, missing by a matter of millimetres, and shattered the window behind him. 

They stood there in silence for a long beat, staring at each other, Jason’s arm still stretched out with the gun aimed just beyond Tim. 

‘You didn’t flinch,’ Jason noted, calmly, replacing his guns in his jacket. ‘Is that because you trusted me, or because you don’t care whether you die or not?’

Tim said nothing, returning Jason’s gaze, his face vacant, expressionless. 

‘The daughter of a controversial Spanish politician has been kidnapped,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘We’re going to infiltrate the place her assailants are holding her, take them out, then drop her off with the police. No killing.’ 

‘No killing,’ Jason conceded hesitantly. 

Tim picked up his bag and began to walk away. ‘I’ll send you the coordinates. Suit up and meet there in half an hour.’ 

‘You’re a piece of work, Replacement,’ Jason muttered under his breath as he watched him disappear around the corner. He bit his lip and stared at the window he had shot out before retreating into the lengthening shadows of the city.

* * *

 In the blink of an eye, all the lightbulbs in the room were taken out, showering glass down onto the surprised faces of the kidnappers.

Tears ran down Yessenia Peñalba’s face as she watched the two vigilantes at work, and she immediately regretted pulling down her blindfold. Yessenia knew that they were here to rescue her, but she also couldn’t ever unhear the screams of pain, nor forget the calculating frown on his face as the man in the cowl and cape dislocated one of her kidnapper’s shoulders. 

Jason turned back and wordlessly watched the man fall to his knees, writhing in agony. He knew this was a test, Tim wanted to see if Jason would make good on his promise to remain non-lethal, and had been observing him all throughout the infiltration. But after witnessing Tim break the bones of the two gunmen on the roof and now this, Jason wondered if Tim didn’t need to watch himself a little more carefully, wondered if Tim even had a line to cross anymore. 

‘Hood! Get the girl and go,’ Tim shouted gruffly, pulling out his bo staff and glaring at the two last men standing. ‘I’ve got these two.’

‘It’d be faster if we take them together,’ Jason muttered, but didn’t contest. Tim was calling the shots here, he knew that was one of the requirements for their continued partnership. He knelt down next to the trembling teenager and cut her bonds, whispering to her gently in fluent Spanish. 

‘ _Deal with this fool!_ ’ the leader shouted as he shot at the red and black blur. Tim dodged his shots with ease.

‘ _You might want to leave, boss,_ ’ the meta said calmly, stepping forward and raising a flaming hand up. 

_Shit, he’s a meta,_ Tim realised too late. 

He jumped in front of Yessenia and Jason, flinging his cape in front of them to fend off the surge of flames that shot from the man’s hands. Yessenia screamed as the flames licked at their feet, and Jason shielded her too, crouching over her with his whole body. 

Tim rolled to the side, trying to draw “Manos de Fuego”, as Tim had affectionately dubbed him in his mind, away from Jason and Yessenia. He listened half-heartedly, too busy reassessing the situation and sizing the man up, as the man prattled on in Spanish, throwing threats and belittling him. He caught a glimpse of Jason helping Yessenia out of the room, and then focussed his fool attention back on the last man standing. Tim watched as Fire Hands drew one of his fiery fists back and ended his own mini-soliloquy with: ‘ _Get ready to burn.’_

He smirked, apparently proud of how ridiculous he sounded, and lunged at Tim’s face.

Tim didn’t think twice about catching the punch, his adrenaline so heightened that the burning sensation didn’t even register as pain in his mind, but as anger. The man’s eyes widened in shock as Tim held his fist there. 

‘ _Burn?_ ’ he spat. ‘ _I don’t think so. Get ready to_ bleed. _’_

_‘Madre…’_ Fire Hands swore under his breath, but he was too late. 

Tim launched his head forward into the man’s nose, breaking it and his glasses instantly as he yelling in pain. Fire Hands stumbled backwards, stunned and hurting and mad, and Tim saw the danger in his eyes just in time. 

The whole apartment burst into flames. 

Tim crashed through the window and shot his grappling hook off towards the building across the way. He landed against the wall, turning back and watching the burning building, panting, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. He squinted at the windows, shading his face against the heat as he tried to look for Fire Hand’s form in the flames, but could see no sign of him. 

As tempted as he was to go after Fire Hands, that wasn’t why he was here. 

Landing on the pavement, he searched for the girl and found her, cowering in one of the doorways, staring up at the flames with wide eyes. Alone. Jason was nowhere in sight. 

When she spotted Tim she rushed to him immediately, a rush of frantic, tearful Spanish that Tim translated as quickly as he could and managed to calm her with a quick: ‘ _Don’t worry, you’re safe now.’_

She didn’t seem very reassured, understandably, and so Tim allowed her to cling to him, awkwardly putting his arms around her even as he searched for Jason. 

His eyes rested on the shadows as two figures emerged from them, one half dragging the other.

the Red Hood threw the leader in front of them, a mess of broken bones, blood and moans of pain. 

Tim looked up at him, his face cold. ‘I told you to stay with the girl.’

‘You told me to get the girl _out,_ ’ Jason corrected him. ‘And I did. But I wasn’t about to let the lowlife who kidnapped her escape.’ 

He drove his foot into the man’s squirming face, pressing it to the pavement even as the fire raged above them. Yessenia whimpered and pressed herself against Tim. Jason noticed and removed his foot, a shadowed look crossing his face as he looked away from her.

‘I’ll take Yessenia to the police,’ Tim said stiffly, holding Jason’s gaze. ‘Tie him up where the authorities can find him, and call the fire department.’

Tim took Yessenia by the waist and shot of his grapple hook, swinging off into the city and leaving the brooding Red Hood to deal with the mess.

* * *

 The girl wouldn’t let go of him for ten minutes, even with the police there speaking to her in low, soothing voices, trying to pry her away from the suspicious and obviously foreign vigilante.

He gave a short explanation to the police before heading back towards his hotel across the noisy Madrid streets, full of people enjoying tapas and wine and good conversation. To Tim, it was just background noise, muddled speech that was drowned out by the police sirens and the smell of rain and the cold wind that tugged at his cape. 

He landed on the balcony of his hotel, cautiously noting the already open doors, and crept into the room his body tensed and ready to attack.

‘Relax, it’s me,’ Jason’s voice drifted from the darkness as he reached over and turned on the bedside table lamp. He was sitting on the bed, his red helmet beside him, wiping blood off of his hands with a wet towel.

Tim noted the singed edges of Jason’s jacket, but said nothing. As soon as he had left Jason, he knew he shouldn’t have. If that man had been killed, it would be Tim’s fault. Because he had, for better or worse, left Jason to his own schemes, given him free reign. Did he really have the time and energy to morally babysit Jason? What did he know about morals anyways, who was he to judge. He was too tired to care anymore, he had compromised on too many things. 

The fact of the matter was, he knew this was something he couldn’t do on his own. He knew he had reached the end of his rope, and he needed to find a new one. And right now, Jason was the only rope that was available to him. The only one who actually believed him.

‘How did you find me.’

Jason simply smiled, glancing at his hand. ‘You might want to do something about that burn.’

Tim looked down at it as if noticing for the first time, then he felt the dull pain. He pulled off his gloves, grimacing in pain as the material was carefully peeled back from the oozing burn, which had turned a bright, angry red. He stripped off his cape, cowl and shirt, tossing them to the floor and stalked into the bathroom, allowing cold, soothing water from the tap to run over his hand. 

Tim stared up into the mirror with a slight inhale, not recognising the reflection even as he searched his own eyes. And then, the voices started again. Berating him for catching that punch, questioning everything, challenging his identity, his past, his sanity, his emotions, his efforts until Tim was left once again reeling in his own self-doubt. He shuddered, clutching the rim of the sink with his hands. 

_What the hell am I doing here?_

‘What are you doing here, Tim?’ Jason asked him from the room, startling him. ‘You said you’re looking for a sign, that Bruce would leave some type of clue or message for you to find. What makes you think it would be in Madrid?’

Breathing in and out deeply, Tim latched on to Jason’s words, focussing on answering him instead of giving in to the intrusive thoughts again.

‘I have no idea where it could be,’ he responded, his voice low. ‘All I can do is look for it. And it makes sense to look in cities that have prominent landmarks, cities I know Bruce has been to, cities he hasn’t been to but might hide in. This is the last city in Spain I need to check.’

Jason nodded slowly, thinking through everything, weighing up Tim’s words. ‘And you trust me now? You really want my help.’

‘On two conditions.’

‘My no-killing streak continues…’

‘—And you follow my lead. To the letter, on everything. Without hesitation. So when I tell you to save the girl, you save the girl and _stay with her_.’ Tim looked up at him in the mirror. ‘Are we clear?’

Jason laughed shortly, shaking his head. ‘Crystal. So, where to next, _compañero_?’

Tim turned the tap off, and closed his eyes as he tried to force Bruce’s image out of his head.

‘Paris.’


	4. Chapter 4

‘Paris. “The City of Light”… why does the City of Light smell like coffee, cigarette smoke, and piss?’

Tim breathed out slowly, trying to maintain his composure as he set the binoculars down. He and Jason were perched on the edge of a slanted apartment roof, giving them a good view of the city streets and anxious man below, throwing furtive looks around him as he fumbled with his car keys.

‘The target’s moving,’ Tim said, his voice flat. 

‘He speaks!’ Jason exclaimed sarcastically, crossing his arms and watching Tim as he stood and busied himself with his grappling hook. ‘You know, if we’re going to work together, we’re going to need to communicate. And I know that’s something you struggle with, but you could at least _pretend_ to try.’ He smirked. ‘This is about the croissant I threw at you, isn’t it?’

Tim threw him a glare, his lips pursed. ‘You disappeared, Jason. _Twice._ You broke the second condition of our “partnership” within an hour of landing in Paris.’

‘And you wasted a perfectly good _pain au chocolat_ ,’ Jason countered. ‘So we’ve both done things we regret.’

‘This _isn’t_ a game, Jason,’ Tim snapped fiercely, impatient and sick of constantly having to listen to Jason’s voice, sick of him making light of everything. 

Jason bristled, his eyes growing cold, narrowing at Tim. 

‘I never said it was,’ he replied in a low voice, dangerous.

They stared at each other for one tense beat, Tim’s chest tightening in anger before he turned away. 

‘Split up. I’ll follow his trail, you cut him off, then we’ll take him. _Together._ And _don’t_ break the mother box.’

Without another word, Tim shot off his grappling hook and left Jason to himself. He landed by his red Ducati and revved the motor just as the target sped away in his white car. Tim was on his tail within a minute, close enough to alert the target of his presence and make him nervous, but far enough to pull away in case something went wrong. 

He usually enjoyed this part more, the thrill of the chase, the wind sweeping through his hair as Batman and Robin caught up to yet another criminal fleeing from the law. But Batman was supposedly dead, “not-Robin” now wore a cowl, and Tim wasn’t enjoying one second of this. 

Tim leaned to the side, his body nearly touching the asphalt as he turned a corner sharply, the bike’s wheels screeching, flying past the cafes and shocked bystanders who scrambled away from the side of the road. 

He heard the gun before he saw it. 

Tim ducked to avoid the few clumsy, badly-aimed bullets the con-man shot at him from his car window. He saw a civilian go down from the corner of his eye, and threw one of his discs at the man’s hand, knocking the gun out of it. 

_Reckless,_ he berated himself, praying that the civilian would be okay. He couldn’t have another death on his hands. _Not now…_

The Eiffel Tower loomed in front of them, an elegant, imposing needle sticking out of the haystack of Parisienne apartments that taunted Tim as he manoeuvred the busy traffic of the city, the epitome of every tourist’s image of the city. But Tim knew the real Paris. The real Paris was grimy back-alleys, twisting streets with seedy bars and clubs, neon lights gleaming in the rain-soaked pavement, chimney stacks that jutted out of the skyline as you soared above them. Those memories had etched themselves into his fourteen-year-old mind when he had come here for training all those years ago; alone, nervous, too afraid to take on the name of Robin yet.

It felt like it had been a lifetime ago. Everything had changed. And yet, he felt more afraid and alone than he had in his whole life.

_Not as alone as I should be,_ Tim thought, gritting his teeth and speeding up as he finally spotted Jason on his own bike, his helmet a red blur as he turned the corner a few blocks down, preparing to cut their target off. 

For once, everything seemed to be going smoothly… but Tim knew better than to expect his luck to continue.

‘Oh no,’ he breathed as he saw the black form shoot down from the sky, barreling right towards the Red Hood. 

Superboy pummelled into Jason, knocking him into one of the buildings as his bike crashed into a lamppost, the engine still screaming. 

The Red Hood collapsed in a pile on the pavement, pulling off his broken helmet, bleeding from a gash on his head. Still dazed, he struggled to prop himself up on one arm, and pulled out one of his guns, aiming it at the Kryptonian as he advanced on him. 

_Conner’s not going to hold back,_ Tim realised suddenly.

Everything seemed to be going in slow-motion, but Tim’s mind and heart were racing. He watched the car speed away in front of him, reluctant, hesitating, questioning… then swore vehemently as he turned his bike sharply and lost sight of it.

He pulled up on his bike just as Jason fired a few warning shots at Conner— warning shots that bounced off his chest and didn’t do a damn bit of good. Superboy knocked the gun out of his hand and had him up against the wall by the scruff of his neck, choking him. Jason struggled, gasping for air, clutching at Superboy’s arm. 

‘Conner!’ the name tore from Tim’s throat in a way he hadn’t meant it to, his chest tight. His feelings were a confused mix of anger, frustration, and warmth as Conner’s eyes looked into his own. ‘Conner, let him go! He’s with me.’

Conner’s grip loosened as he looked from the Red Hood to Tim, back and forth, the questions showing up on his face. He let Jason down slowly, frowning. ‘What—?’

_‘For fuck’s sake._ We don’t have time for this,’ Jason spat blood out of his mouth, taking advantage of Superboy’s moment of hesitation and pulling himself away roughly. ‘He’s getting away, dammit!’ He grabbed his broken helmet and started for his bike. 

For a moment it looked like Conner was going to pin him back up against the wall, but Tim quickly pulled up between them, ignoring Jason as he heaved his own, battered bike back up. Conner followed the Red Hood with his eyes as he rode away, before turning to Tim with a look of pure confusion.

‘Tim… I don’t understand. You said Jason Todd—’

‘There’s no time to explain,’ Tim snapped shortly. ‘Either help, or _get out of the way_ , Kon.’ 

He revved up his motor and drove off. Gritting his teeth, Tim tried to focus on the road, but all he could see right now was the hurt that had shot across Conner’s face. 

* * *

Jason followed the tracker Tim had stuck on the car hours ago, cutting through back-alleys and weaving his bike through the civilians in an attempt to intercept the target. His body was still throbbing from Superboy’s completely unsolicited attack, but he did his best to ignore the pain. 

_I’ll have a pretty set of bruises on my chest and back tomorrow morning,_ he mused bitterly, Breaking out of one of the narrow alleys, he pulled up on the curb and leapt off his bike, breathing heavily as he stared down the street expectantly. 

Sure enough, the white car came speeding through the traffic towards him.

Jason pulled out his one remaining gun and fired a few warning shots in air above the civilian’s heads’. 

‘ _Au sol! Jetez-vouz au sol!_ ’ he yelled at them roughly, aiming his gun at the tires and shooting as pedestrians screamed in panic, scrambling to get out of his way. 

He missed. 

Sweat ran down his face and he took aim again, cocking his gun and attempting to hold his arms steady as the car continued to speed towards him.

_‘Shit,’_ he swore under his breath, pulling his gun back and sprinting after the car even as Superboy suddenly lifted it up awkwardly by its side. 

The con-man dangled from the car door, screaming and clinging on for dear life. Jason saw the mother box slip from his hands, falling down to the street below. He reacted out of instinct, leaping for the mother box as a pair of headlights blinded him, the truck driver blaring his horn and yelling. 

The truck swerved and crashed into the side of a boutique, blocking the entire street. 

‘Hood!’ Tim shouted desperately, jumping off his bike before it had even stopped and running towards the crash. _Oh god, no. Not again._

He rounded on the truck, his eyes darting around for a body…

Jason lay right beside one of the rear tires, the mother box cradled in his arms, shielding it. He uncurled with a deep, shaky breath and looked up at the truck, measuring with his eyes how close it had been to hitting him. Tim watched the spark of realisation shoot across his face, then disappear just as quickly, replaced with a neutral expression that betrayed none of his emotions on the fact that he had almost died for a second time. Jason winced, clutching his ribs and stood stiffly, leaning against the tire as he tossed the glowing, ticking apparatus to Tim, his mouth set in a straight line. 

‘Good news. I saved the mother box… and I didn’t die. Again. No thanks to _Superboy._ ’ 

‘I—I’m sorry. I was just trying to help,’ Conner apologised, indignant but still startled by Jason’s suicidal attempt to save the mother box. He looked imploringly at Tim. ‘Tim… can you explain what’s going on now?’ He received no response. ‘…Tim?’

Tim was sat on the ground, inspecting the mother box with single-minded attention, seemingly blocking out everything else around him, oblivious to the sirens, the hushed whispers from the civilians, Conner. He turned the glowing yellow box around in his hands, the light illuminating the hollowness and hunger that lay in his eyes as he fiddled with it. 

After what seemed like ages, he stopped and set the box down carefully on the street, staring at it blankly. 

Jason watched him carefully, still leaning against the truck. ‘Well? Can you fix it?’

‘No,’ Tim whispered. ‘I can’t.’

They stood there in silence for a moment, the three of them all staring at the box, before Jason nodded in numb acknowledgement, running a hand through his hair and muttering curses as he stalked away to deal with the con-man. 

Tim didn’t move, and Conner reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Tim flinched and looked up at Conner as if noticing his presence for the first time; as if he were seeing a ghost. But he made no move to remove Conner's hand from his shoulder. 

‘I don’t understand what’s going on but I’m sorry if I messed everything up,’ Conner said quietly.

‘No… no it wasn’t your fault, Kon,’ Tim responded. ‘The mother box was already broken.’ 

He stood and picked up the strange apparatus, weighing it in his hand, the unspoken frustration of this whole debacle being a complete waste of time and energy left hanging in the tense air. 

‘I tried calling,’ Conner said pointedly, still wary and impatient for some sort of explanation, for everything. 

‘I’ve been… busy.’

‘Too busy for your best friend?’

Tim said nothing, but Conner noticed the tired, pained look that crossed his face. Tim had known that Conner had come back, that he was alive; and yet he had made no effort to contact him. Everyone had told Conner that Tim was mourning Batman, that the grief had driven him away from anyone who voiced desire to help or console him… and even now, it was as if there was an invisible but palpable barrier built up between the himself and Conner; h e was intentionally distancing himself. 

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but shut it as Jason came back towards them.

‘The authorities are on their way to pick up “Mr. Funk”… he’s not going anywhere.’

‘Okay,’ Tim said simply. 

They stood there awkwardly, Conner at a complete loss for what to do or say, Tim reeling from disappointment, and Jason still staring at the truck.

‘You two probably have a lot to talk about,’ Jason broke the silence, his voice feigning indifference, but Tim heard the bitter undertone. He turned his back on them and walked towards his bike. ’I’ll meet you back at the hotel, Tim.’

‘Jason…’ Tim called feebly after him.

‘No. It’s fine. I know when I’m not wanted.’ 

He threw a thin smile at Superboy that was not returned, then got on his bike and rode off into the night, leaving Tim with no choice but to properly reunite with his friend, and explain why the hell he was working with the resurrected ex-Robin who had taken control of the Gotham crime-rings not a year earlier.

* * *

 Jason clutched at the edge of the toilet bowl, his knuckles growing white as he retched into it, dry heaving, the metallic taste of blood and vomit lingering in the back of his throat.

Wiping his mouth shakily with the sleeve of his leather jacket, he collapsed back against the bathroom wall and stared vacantly at the ceiling. Sweat ran slowly down his face as short, rasping breaths escaped his mouth.

The lights of the truck and blaring horn filled his memory in a rush. 

He buried his head into his hands and tried to force it to go away, but the images and sounds only morphed into another memory, one he thought he had gotten over, finally escaped. Flashes of metal whistling through the air before bone cracked in cries of painful surrender, the rank smell of death and moist soil, his consciousness dragged back into life even as his lungs were filled with water, drowning.

‘Fuck…’ Jason gasped in between sobs, shaking violently. ‘ _Fuck._ ’ 

_Breathe… breathe, dammit._

Tears running down his cheeks, he took one long breath in through his nose, counting to five, then slowly exhaled through his mouth. His mind latched on to the rhythm, the sensation of oxygen, not water, filling his lungs; the feeling of release, using it to ground his rampant thoughts and emotions. 

For reasons he couldn’t explain, he heard Tim’s distant voice suddenly ring in his ears… yelling his name above the traffic and screeching tires as the truck had bared down on him. He heard the desperation, the raw fear, the sincerity; and he didn’t know what to make of it. 

But he knew it calmed him down. 

So he closed his eyes, and allowed Tim Drake’s voice to play in a continuous loop in his head, until he wasn’t thinking about the truck, until the panic and sickness and fear and death began to slowly fade away, slink back into the shadows, dissipating with every breath. And as he focussed on that voice, heard the confusing mixture of emotions that lay in it, he felt his own inner turmoil of intention rise to the surface, beating against his chest. 

He had been using Tim. He realised that now. He had told himself that the only reason he was here was to find Bruce. Because if there was even the slightest chance that Bruce was still alive, he had to find him.

To Jason, it was grossly unfair that Bruce should be able to just escape reconciliation, would deny him any chance to mend things between them. He knew nothing about what Jason had been doing in the past year, the journey Jason had gone on personally, the conclusions he had reached and had endeavoured to throw at Batman’s feet, to tell him with certainty: “I am not you, but this is who I _am._ Do with it what you will”.

Jason needed to find Bruce for himself.

But tonight, tonight… he hadn’t just been doing this for himself. He had been doing it for Tim too, and he knew it. Loneliness, pain, and rejection seeped from Tim’s every movement and word in a way that felt all too familiar to Jason. It reminded him of himself, of being an outcast, of being doubted, of silent tears in the darkness and visceral anger that surged from your guts. And he hated it. He hated that that he could empathise on some level with Tim, that he understood how alone he felt, why he was so desperate to find Bruce. 

He saw himself in Tim. And more than anything, he wanted to make sure that Tim didn’t make the same mistakes he did. That he got through this battle with himself and his family and his meaning in one piece, with as few compromises as possible. With as few regrets. 

That was why he had jumped in front of the van, why he had risked his life for that stupid contraption, why he had felt his heart sink when Tim realised it had all been for naught, why he was still here in Paris and not disappearing again like he always did.

Tim needed Bruce even more than Jason did. 

Feeling began to creep back into the tips of his numb fingers, strength, until he felt like he could stand again. Jason sighed, steadying himself against the wall as his head spun. It had been his first panic attack in half a year, he thought he had gotten over them, thought he had “recovered” from his trauma. 

‘In your fucking dreams, Jason,’ he muttered to himself, flushing the toilet. 

He realised how exhausted he was and debated whether he could afford to sleep before Tim got back. He resolved to lay awake in bed for as long as he could, then throw caution to the wind. Tim would probably be angry at him tomorrow, for “not being vigilant and alert”. But sleep was worth the wrath of his partner in almost-crime. 

But even as Jason turned the lights off in the bathroom, a new wave of anxiety hit him and he fought against the nausea again. Tried to ignore the inexplicable feeling that something was wrong, that something was going to happen, that he was in danger. 

Breathing as deeply as he could, he walked to the bed cautiously, throwing a furtive glance out of the window as he crossed the room.

Most people would think nothing of a tiny reflection of light from the building across the way, but Jason recognised it for what it was immediately and lunged for his bag…

 

The entire hotel room exploded in a roaring burst of flames. 


	5. Chapter 5

‘I shouldn’t be here, Jason,’ Tim said tentatively as he surveyed the well-lit Berlin bar that he had hesitantly allowed himself to be pulled into. 

The room was crowded with raucous Germans, enjoying their beers and shouting _“prost!”_ at one another from across the room, as if it were a contest to see who could say it the loudest. Their table, in comparison, was much quieter. Jason picked up his pint of golden beer and took a long drink from it in silence, his face dark and broody. 

‘The drinking age in Germany is sixteen,’ Jason muttered, looking distractedly at the television, which was screening yet another fußball game; this was, after all, Europe. ‘And you’re not even drinking alcohol. _Nobody fucking cares._ ’ 

Tim fiddled with his glass of coca cola, scraping the glass backwards and forwards across the rough wood table, watching the puddle of condensation spread across it. He threw a glance up at Jason, noting the way his fingers seemed to tremble as they curled around his pint, the way his eyes darted around the room, his every muscle tensed as if he were waiting for something to happen. 

Jason had been like this ever since they had left Paris and flown here to Berlin. Detached, distant, as if he wasn’t really there, and Tim couldn’t blame him. He had narrowly escaped the explosion in Paris the night before, and if Tim hadn’t gotten there soon after… Jason probably wouldn’t have made it.

It had all happened so fast: chasing after the mother box, running into Conner, talking for ages about everything… then returning to the hotel only to find it in flames with Jason fighting against the League of Assassins. Fighting, and _losing._ Tim had managed to hold his own against them, and they had disappeared, leaving behind a comm from which flowed the cool, threatening voice of “the Master” himself with a proposition.

Tim sighed and ran his hands down his face, tired, exhausted and severely lacking in sleep; he didn’t have the energy to be thinking about this now, wasn’t in the best state of mind to be making rational decisions. But there was no avoiding Ra’s al Ghul. Especially not when he might have information on Bruce. And there was no easy way to tiptoe around Jason’s trauma, or whatever this was that he was wrestling with in silence as he sat there drinking his beer.

Tim took a deep breath. 

‘We need him,’ he stated simply.

Jason slammed his beer down on the table, glowering at it as his jaw clenched in anger. 

‘We _don’t,’_ he seethed under his breath. ‘You just _think_ we do. You’re afraid that we won’t be able to pick up a trail on Bruce again on our own, and would rather trust in Ra’s al Ghul than in yourself, or me.’

Tim turned red. ‘That, is not true,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m being logical about this. I am facing the reality that we lost our final lead in Paris. That broken mother box was the last straw; I’ve done all I can. But Ra’s _knows something_. He believes Bruce is alive because he’s found some sort of proof, I’m sure of it. We. Need. Him. Why can’t you see that?’

Jason scowled at him, downing the last of his beer. He sat there in silence, staring at the foam as it dripped back down the inside of the glass, coming to rest at the bottom. Tim crossed his arms awkwardly, leaning back into the cushion of his booth seat and looking away.

‘He would just be using you, Tim,’ Jason pressed.

Tim looked up at that, surprised at the almost desperate edge that carried through. He chewed his lip pensively as he mulled over Jason’s words. 

‘We would be using him too. We could always stay one step ahead of him, ensure that he can’t hold anything against us… but we can’t keep trying to do this by ourselves.’ He paused and tapped his finger on the table, watching Jason carefully. ‘When you decided to help me, you agreed to following my lead, letting me have the final decision. I’m doing this.’

‘Do whatever you want,’ Jason said under his breath, standing and stalking away from him towards the bar, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. 

Tim went to call after him, to tell him to wait, but found that the words refused to come out. So he swallowed, washing them down with the last of his coke. He stood and, with one last glance towards the bar, weaved his way through the throng of red-faced, happily drunk fußball fans. 

He inhaled the cool night air as he stepped outside, letting it fill his lungs and cleanse him of the stuffy, crowded noise of the bar, allowing Jason to slip from his mind if for only a second. 

He knew, deep down, that something was wrong. Whether it was about Ra’s, or just the events of the previous night, or a combination of both, Tim didn’t know, and was afraid to push lest it only cause Jason to shut him out even more. 

Wandering away from the group of smokers huddled together outside the bar, Tim leaned against the brick wall of the next building. He pulled out the small comm and stared at it, hesitating, doubting again whether or not this was a good idea.

_It’s not a good idea_ , he told himself firmly, closing his eyes and placing the communicator up to his ear. _But it’s the only idea I've got._

He took a deep breath and turned it on. 

‘Okay Ra’s,’ Tim said. ‘Start talking.’ 

* * *

 

Jason shoved his way through the drunken rabble in the bar as he left Tim, his chest growing tighter and tighter, trying to ignore the panic that was rising inside. He knew he couldn’t avoid it forever, but another beer would give him another hour at least; or so he told himself. He leaned against the bar, put some euros down on the counter.

‘Ein großes Helles, bitte.'

The bartender hesitated, perhaps noticing the slight accent Jason’s German still carried, or else noticing the tension that belied Jason’s impassive expression. But he shrugged and set down the glass he had been cleaning. 

‘Ein bier, kommt sofort.’

As the bartender pulled out another glass and began filling it up with light beer, Jason ran a hand through his hair shakily, and found his thoughts being dragged against their will to the events of the previous night… Jumping out of the hotel room’s side window as flames licked at his back, feeling nothing but forcing his muscles to move anyways, to pursue the assassins, hardly trying to keep to Tim’s no-kill rule, but holding back all the same. 

He remembered how one of the three assassins had fought in a style of Capoeira that was hauntingly familiar. A style that had not come from Batman. He remembered realising these were League of Shadow assassins and two faces filling his memory, unbidden: the al Ghuls who were responsible for finding and looking after him. 

Responsible for restoring his memory by putting him into the Lazarus Pit without his consent. 

It was all downhill after that. The injuries he had sustained during his short spat with Superboy, added to the scrapes and bruises from saving the mother box on top of the sprained ankle he got from jumping out the window had left him vulnerable. His mind and emotions were running wild as he tried to suppress the panic from rising up again and focus, but there was only so much he could do, and the girl had been a bit too trigger-happy even for her teammates. 

She got him in the shoulder, and Jason had gone down. He was lucky she was young and had allowed herself to revel in his pain, taking the time to place a gun to his head instead of just shooting him from a distance. She had wanted to relish his death. 

Death. 

The bartender tapped Jason on his wounded shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts, and gestured at his beer. 

‘Danke schön,’ Jason murmured, picking up his glass and resting his elbows atop the bar as he took a long drink. 

The bartender busied himself with other customers, and Jason’s thoughts returned back to darker things it seemed not even beer could stop him from contemplating…

_Death._

Jason had been so ready for it, all the panic he had felt twenty minutes before in his hotel room had placed him in that one still moment of numb acceptance, the same numbness that had prompted him to jump in front of a truck without a second thought. Which begged the question:

_Did he want to die?_

A blur of black and red and yellow standing over him. The figure in the cowl, his mouth turned down in a calculated frown, his posture calm, collected. Tim had knocked the gun out of the assassin’s hand with a quick jerk of his bo staff, then kicked her in the stomach. 

He had looked so much like Bruce in that moment. 

Jason didn’t remember much after that. His vision had faded, entering some vortex of mixed colours and greys and sights, sounds, smells as he swallowed bile and reached for his gun. But by the time he found it and was able to focus enough, to aim, the fight was over, the assassins vanished, and Tim Drake was crouching down in front of him asking if he was “okay”, his voice quiet, concerned. 

_I was okay once… and then I died,_ Jason wanted to throw at him sarcastically. But nothing came out of his mouth. 

Instead he had quickly muttered something about being “fine”, that the gunshot wound was “nothing” and had shut down any attempt by Tim to help him with a glare. 

He hadn’t spoken to Tim again until they had entered this bar half an hour ago. Both of them had been completely silent, sitting in the Charles de Gaulle airport, Tim sipping his triple espresso, Jason impulsively tapping his foot on the floor, a dark look on his face. Tim had spent most of the two-hour flight to Berlin staring at the communicator left behind by one of the assassins, working through things in his head. 

Jason had turned the other way and looked out the window with a scowl. 

Ra’s al Ghul believed that Bruce Wayne was alive. And suddenly that was at the fucking centre of Tim’s every thought. Jason could tell, he knew what was coming. He knew that Tim would decide to accept Ra’s “help”, whatever that _really_ meant. He had braced himself for it as soon as they had sat down in this bar, but that still hadn’t prepared him for the surge of emotions and discomfort that had arisen when it had finally happened.

He wanted to tell Tim why he was so against it. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t just because this was Ra’s al Ghul. He wanted to tell him how he felt about the al Ghuls toying with his consciousness and life the way they had, the way Talia had, the way Ra’s had enabled her and was now likely trying to “correct” her mistakes. But instead he had sat there, drinking his beer and brooding while the football fans’ shouting grated against his ears. Like they were grating against them now. 

Jason threw a glare in the direction of a nearby burly man shouting with his friends, everything from his shaved head, to his offensive tattoos and bellowing voice pissing him off. He felt the rage pressing against his chest, and attempted to drown it in beer. 

It seemed to be helping… until the burly man stood in front of him, asking him _what the hell he was looking at_ and mocking him in a string of harsh, slurred consonants, his face inches away from Jason’s own. 

The man shoved him and Jason felt something snap inside. All of the pent up rage, the fear that he had been pushing down, the panic, set off like a spring by physical aggression. 

Next thing he knew he was on top of the man, his fist pummelling into his ruddy face, coming back bloody as he shut out the muffled screams and shouts of bystanders. He could only hear that awful high-pitched, mocking laugh, images of a white-painted face with smeared red lipstick, those beady eyes glowing at him… as if he knew he had already won. As if he had known from the start. 

_Get out of my mind you bastard!_ he cried, punching harder to get through the darkness, to get through the burning pain that coursed through his veins, the heaviness blocking out everything but…

‘Jason—!?’ Tim’s voice broke through the rush as he grabbed ahold of Jason’s wrist stopping his fist midair. ‘Jason, _stop!_ What the hell’s wrong with you?’

He froze, looking up at Tim, seeing the horror, the disgust, the disappointment… the fear? His hand went limp in Tim’s grasp as he looked down at the man’s bruised and battered face.

_Oh no._  

* * *

 

‘Jason? Jason!’ Tim called out desperately as Jason tore himself from his grasp, yanking his arm away and stumbling through the crowd of people. 

At a loss for what to do, Tim glanced back down at the bloodied man on the ground, checking his pulse and breathing. 

_He’ll be okay… with medical attention._

He stood and locked eyes with the baffled bartender, who was floating over the man with a pale expression on his face. 

‘Rufen Sie einen Krankenwagen,’ Tim told him firmly, the practiced phrase coming easily.

‘J-ja… ja,’ The bartender stuttered after a moment’s hesitation, pulling his mobile out and dialling the emergency number as he put a hand to his forehead and continued to stare at the unconscious man.

Satisfied that they would manage on their own, Tim turned his back on the bloody mess and pushed his way through the throng of curious bystanders. Sprinting out the door again, his eyes darted around the cold, foggy streets for Jason, but he was nowhere to be seen. He swore lightly, frustration mounting up within him as he tried to think about where Jason would go in Berlin, where he would hide. He highly doubted he would go anywhere Tim would immediately think to look. 

_That rules out the hotel… any other bars… alleyways… rooftops…_

Tim froze as he read the sign pointing to the subway, and it was as if he knew instinctively. The thoughts implanted itself in the back of his mind and refused to leave. A whisper, but a dangerous one that he had heard far too often.

_No. No, no, no, no, no, no… don’t._

Tim ignored the angry swears as he jostled through the late night commuters, running down the stairs to the subway as fast as he could, guessing at which side of the platform he might be on, hoping his instincts would prove helpful just this once. 

_Just this once._

He stood there, eyes scanning the area until he finally spotted Jason: standing right at the edge of the platform, looking down at the tracks with a distant expression. 

Tim’s heart nearly stopped. 

_Calm down. Breathe. You know what to do,_ he reminded himself, trying to reel in the sudden onslaught of intrusive thoughts and bad memories; he could deal with them another time, but right now, Jason needed him. 

Tim walked over to him cautiously and reached out, touching Jason on the shoulder gently.

‘Hey,’ he ventured, his voice quiet. 

Jason turned and looked at him just as a a train rushed by the platform, the lights casting shadows across them both. The wind blew strands of dark hair away from Jason’s eyes, revealing the emptiness that lay behind them, and Tim felt his breath catch in his throat, his every emotion and thought reaching out to him, wanting to bring him back. 

The roar of the subway subsided Tim swallowed and forced himself to speak. 

‘Why don’t we go sit down,’ he suggested calmly, leaving his tone open, ensuring it wasn’t an order.

Jason allowed himself to be led away from the tracks, his every movement slow, heavy… Tim knew it wasn’t the alcohol. They sat down together against the graffiti embellished tiles of the wall, their backs pressed against the grime and filth of the city as Tim crossed his legs, staring straight ahead, and Jason buried his head in his hands. His breathing was shallow and rough in his chest as he tried to speak. 

‘God Tim… I—’ he broke off, leaning his head back against the wall as silent tears streamed down his upturned face, broken, hands trembling. ‘I—I wasn’t going to do it. But I’m just… I’m so fucked up. Half the time, I don’t even want to be here anymore…’ Jason’s voice carried off hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure of his own thoughts. 

‘It’s okay,’ Tim responded quietly. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself. Try and focus on your breathing for now. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘Maybe if you stop patronising me and drop the fucking therapist act,’ Jason snapped through gritted teeth in return, squeezing his eyes shut.

Tim tried and failed to keep a smile from tugging at the corner of his lips. 

‘Sorry.’

Tim had guessed correctly that Jason had been through panic attacks like this before. He immediately went into an easy rhythm that had been practiced many times, one that was routine, taking a deep breath in, holding it for five beats, and then letting it out as slowly as he could manage to. Tim had used similar breathing exercises to combat his own anxiety, and sat there, listening to Jason’s breaths, counting with him, noting how much calmer they started to get after a few minutes. 

Passer-by’s threw strange, curious glances in their direction, probably assuming Jason was high or drunk or something, but Tim just glared at them till they looked away. One kind woman stopped and asked if they were alright, and he mustered a small smile and replied that _they were fine, thank you._

‘Your German is better than your Spanish,’ Jason said, surprising Tim by how calm and improved he already sounded. It was a good sign. 

‘Yeah, well, I was privately tutored in German…’ he responded, suddenly feeling tired. 

Tim suddenly realised that Jason and he had been travelling together for almost a week now, and yet hadn’t had even one single, normal conversation. Everything about Jason had pissed Tim off. But their team-up in Paris, seeing the lengths Jason was willing to go, seeing Conner again, it had all changed something in Tim. He felt more like himself than he had in weeks, like he had regained some sense of control, of responsibility over himself and his actions. Even if he was still fixated on finding Bruce, he no longer felt the desperation, the intense anxiety that had driven him in a frenzied hunt across the world to find a clue. Somehow, he knew it would all come into place.

But Jason… Jason worried him in a different way now. Had done ever since Tim had watched him jump in front of the speeding truck. And tonight had simply confirmed his fears. 

Tim smiled sadly, the irony of it all just too much to ignore, and killed the last of his fears. 

‘In the span of four years,’ he began, his voice low. ‘I lost almost all of the people I was closest to. I lost my parents, my girlfriend, my best friend, and then Bruce. I would always overwork myself, whether it was on patrol or sitting in the Cave for hours, pouring over police reports. I—I always had to be doing something. To distract myself from the the fact that, most of the time… I don’t really want to be here either.’

The dank air in the underground was heavy as the two sat there beside each other, Tim holding his breath apprehensively, Jason staring straight ahead, pondering what he had said. 

‘So we’re both currently the outcasts of the family, and we both want to die?’ Jason asked drily. 

‘Who would have thought we’d have so much in common?’

Jason shook his head as a small, bitter laugh escaped his mouth.

‘You’re all right, Replacement,’ he murmured, letting out a deep breath and closing his eyes again. ‘But you’ll need all the help you can get from here on out.’

Tim smiled knowingly as they sat there in silence, shoulders nearly touching, the ringing announcements echoing from the speakers as another subway rushed into the station… 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Tamara Fox played with her gold bracelet distractedly, twirling it around on her wrist as she looked out the window with a short, impatient breath.

Moscow was beautiful: a pale smudge of purple sunset and blue clouds, the neon-dappled river reflecting the business district’s many glittering lights and skyscrapers— one of which was Wayne Enterprise’s Moscow Branch, to which Tam was now confined. She had zoned out of the board meeting with the Prime Minister ages ago, and was only hearing every tenth word or so, the muffled Russian roughly translated in her head as a representative for Wayne Biotech and Medical pitched their proposal for working alongside the health care system that already existed here. She was only really here as an intern because Lucius Fox— C.E.O of Wayne Enterprises and stubborn father who would not take no for an answer— had convinced her it would look good on her CV and earn her valuable work experience. 

_So here I am,_ Tam thought, an irritated frown crossing her face. _Sitting in a stuffy boardroom in this uncomfortable dress-suit, when I_ could _be out and about exploring the nippy streets of Moscow, eating meat dumplings, and drinking in the vivid colours of St. Basil’s spiralling domes…_

‘Miss Fox?’

Tam started out of her broody reverie and blinked up at the hesitant and slightly confused face of Mr. Davies, her mentor for the Moscow leg of her internship . It was only recently she had been able to hold eye contact with him when he was talking. His hair was just… very ginger. But cute ginger. 

‘Miss Fox, there’s a call for you,’ he said awkwardly, handing her a cellphone. 

‘Что э́то?’ 

_What is this?_ Tam translated in her head, side eying the Russian Health Councillor who was standing as he responded to Wayne Enterprise’s proposal with critiques. He was now glaring at her over his glasses, and the room had gone silent. 

She took the phone and held it up to her ear, flushing slightly as he continued to glower at her. 

‘Um, hello? I’m in— _Dad?_ What are you— I can’t… I’m in the middle of—’ Tamara groaned, shielding her eyes with her hand and shrinking as the whole boardroom watched her like hawks. 

‘—Okay, okay! Just… give me a second,’ she hissed beneath her breath, hanging up on her dad.

‘Miss… Fox?’ 

‘I’m sorry Mr. Davies,’ Tam stood and began to grab her notes and papers, sorting them into a clumsy pile. ‘I have to go… my father has some urgent business he’d like to discuss.’ 

She slung her briefcase strap over her shoulder, throwing an apologetic look up at the rest of the men in their suits. 

_‘And, um… apologies, Mr. Prime Minister. Good luck with, y’know… Russia.’_ she addressed the Prime Minister in Russian, stumbling over the words.

_Smooth Tam. Real smooth._

She cursed herself inwardly as she escaped the room, brushing past Mr. Davies and his bright red tie. 

_Why would you wear a red tie when you have ginger hair? Why?_

Plopping down on a couch, Tam redialed her father and let out a frustrated sigh, staring at her reflection in the all-glass window. The dress suit, the red lipstick, the straight, shoulder-length black hair… how long had it been since she’d worn her hair natural and had a pyjama day? 

Tam didn’t think about it often, but sometimes, when she saw herself like this— all mature, and accomplished and business-like— she remembered the pact she had made with herself when she was little: that she would to never end up this way. A miniature clone of her father, the big, important businessman, chasing after the internships and the fancy diplomas and the swanky suits. Tam remembered a time when all she had wanted to do was to become an explorer, an archeologist, a traveler. To go on adventures, and see the sights and traverse the globe. She had played make-believe that she was a mermaid, a princess, a pirate, a fairy… her every waking moment filled with wonder and excitement, a fervour for life and the possibilities the future held. 

_What happened to that little girl?_ she wondered, closing her eyes and massaging her forehead rhythmically, trying to shut off the “Russian” language compartment in her brain that was still throwing random words around and attempting to translate even her thoughts as the familiar voice finally came through the other end of her cell.

_‘Sorry Tam, I had an impromptu meeting with—’_

‘Dad,’ Tam snapped, her voice abandoning any sense of “calm, cool and collected” that she maintained while working. ‘I’m an _intern_ here. You can’t just call me in the middle of a meeting with the Prime Minister of Russia. How could you embarrass me like that?!’ 

_‘…I’m sorry, Tamara. But this is important.’_

‘So you said,’ Tam muttered. ‘Okay. What is it. What could be so important, you just had to pull me out of that meeting?’

_‘I need you to find Tim Wayne.’_

Tam blinked, opening her mouth.

‘Pardon?’

_‘…Tim Drake-Wayne…? Bruce Wayne’s newly adopted son—’_

‘I know who Tim Drake is, Dad!’ Tam cut in loudly, throwing up her hand in disbelief and causing a passing assistant to give her an odd look. She reverted to a low whisper. ‘Now why the _hell_ are you asking me to drop my once-in-a-lifetime internship that _you_ told encouraged me to take, to go looking for this rich white-boy who’s probably just bored and having the time of his life back-packing around Europe?’

_‘Language, Tamara,’_ her father chastised through the phone, no doubt frowning in disapproval on the other end. _‘Bruce Wayne and his other sons are currently either travelling, indisposed, or too young to be running a company. The only one who is qualified to be in charge of the company for the remainder of Bruce Wayne’s unexpected and seemingly long-term absence is Timothy Drake-Wayne. I talked to Dick Grayson yesterday, and was told that Tim has been travelling Europe for the past few weeks, but he’s not in direct contact with him.’_

‘You basically run the company as it is, Dad,’ she sighed, leaning her neck against the back of the sofa. ‘Why do you need any of the Waynes?’

_‘It’s in the name, Tamara. Yes, I do most of the work around here, but Bruce Wayne still has a large say in what goes on and has been very active in company life. He has specified to me that in case of his absence, one of his sons should be entrusted with the leadership of the company. Dick Grayson was quite clear that he holds no interest in running the company… and Damian Wayne is ten years old.’_

Tamara held a hand up to her forehead as she absorbed all this information, her lips set in a tight frown. ‘Fine. Where is he?’ 

_‘Berlin. We think.’_

‘You _think?_ ’ Tamara repeated, incredulous. 

_‘He’s trying very hard not to be found,’_ Lucius said, his voice exasperated. _‘Look, I’ll send you a photo so you can ask around in the major hotels if anyone’s seen him. At this point, that’s our best bet at finding him.’_

Tamara said nothing in response, closing her eyes as soon as she heard her father’s no-nonsense tone. She knew there would be no negotiating; he wasn’t even asking her, he was telling her. Just like he had done with this internship. 

_‘Tamara…?’_

‘Okay. I’ll leave right away. Bye, Dad.’

She hung up the phone and slumped against the couch, completely unconcerned with how “unprofessional” she must look. Her phone vibrated not a minute later, alerting her of a new message that she opened quickly. 

She glared at the photo of a tired-looking boy about her age, his black hair unkempt as he rushed to get into a taxi in some European city, seething with anger at him. 

_Tim Drake-Wayne better be worth it…_

* * *

Tim woke up in an odd, uncomfortable position, wrapped in sheets and half-hanging off his bed as he sat up sleepily. The curtain was partially open, letting in a shaft of gold-tinted light from the sunset and blinding him for a moment before he shifted out if its way. He became aware of a line of drool trailing down his chin and wiped it away quickly, blinking up with a dazed expression at the sound of Jason’s amused voice.

‘I think that’s the most I’ve seen you sleep. Ever.’

‘ _Nn_ … How long was I out for?’ Tim mumbled, his words slurring as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Suddenly, he started. ‘ _Wait._ What time is it?’

‘Relax,’ Jason said, standing up and crossing the room to him. ‘It’s only six-thirty… the museum doesn’t close until eight.’

Wordlessly, he held out a paper cup of coffee for Tim. It was from a chainstore, but at this point, Tim didn’t care where the coffee was from. He received it gratefully and took a long sip, surprised, but beyond relieved that Jason had remembered his usual order. He closed his eyes, and let out a deep breath as he felt the caffeine rush through his system, the grogginess of sleep dissipating already.

Jason sat back down on his own bed and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘You look like you’re having a religious experience or something.’

‘I am,’ Tim murmured, eyes still closed. 

‘Well, maybe after you exit your spiritual moment of bliss, pursued by a bear, we can discuss our plan of action for—’

Tim held up his hand as he took another sip of the dark, aromatic elixir, stopping Jason mid-sentence. He looked up at him with furrowed brows, scowling. 

‘Rule number one: coffee always comes first.’

‘I thought the rule was: “family first”…’ Jason returned sarcastically, the word slipping past his tongue with ease, undetected, unintended. 

They both flushed, realising the weight of what he was suggesting, and the silence of the stale hotel room become awkward very quickly. Jason cleared his throat and busied himself with his guns while Tim looked away pointedly, picking at a scab on his arm.

‘Was there… anything else you needed to get off your chest?’ Tim ventured, cautious, trying to keep his tone light as he threw a tentative glance over at Jason. 

Jason said nothing for a moment, checking the trigger on his gun cooly and aiming it at the wall, as if he hadn’t heard him. 

Tim tipped his head back to drink his coffee and watched Jason, noting how much calmer and steady he seemed now. After the fiasco at the bar and chasing him down to the metro last night, Tim had convinced Jason to retreat back to the hotel with him, and they had talked. Probably not as much as they should have, but it was a start. They had covered the immediate issues, namely Jason’s suicidal behaviour and lack of interest in his own safety and wellbeing. 

Though Tim had a sinking feeling that if Jason hadn’t been there for him to think about and look after, he would have been behaving in a very similar way. He didn’t tell Jason that though. He _did_ tell Jason, pointedly, that they needed to be more honest and open with each other about what thoughts or feelings they were dealing with if they expected this to work. 

Hence Tim’s feeble attempt at probing. 

‘Not really,’ Jason finally responded, a bit stiff. ‘I’d rather go ahead and just talk about our plan for tonight.’

‘Fair enough.’ 

Tim finished his coffee, gulping down the last dregs and ignoring Jason’s raised eyebrow. Tossing the paper cup into the bin, he reached into his bag and pulled out the mini holographic computer from his utility belt. 

‘According to our _very reliable source_ ,’ Tim said sarcastically, noticing the indulgent half-smile tugging at the corner of Jason’s mouth, ‘there’s a fossil being kept at the Berlin Museum of Ethnology that will be very… “illuminating.”’

His fingers tapped the computer screen in fluid, automatic movements, bringing up a blue holographic projection of the museum’s floor plan. Jason walked over to join Tim, sitting with one leg off of the bed, and leaned forward, eyes narrowing in concentration as he studied the plan. 

‘Are these all the alarms and cameras?’ he asked pointing at one of the red dots sprinkled on the various floors and exhibits. 

‘Yeah…’ Tim nodded, crossing his arms. ‘Obviously, it’s a pretty prestigious museum, so there’s a lot of them. It’s not going to be an easy break-in.’

Jason shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘Have you broken into worse?’ 

‘Not the point. So, how are we gonna do this?’

Tim optimised a section of the plan and stifled a yawn, waving at the hologram vaguely. ‘The Stone Age exhibit is on the second floor. If we can knock out the alarms and cameras remotely, and enter through this top-floor window here,’ he enlarged the window he was referencing, ‘we should be able to neutralise the security guard in charge of that exhibit and avoid detection.’

‘What about Ra’s?’

A tense silence settled in between them at the mention of his name. Tim ran a hand through his hair and shifted uncomfortably on the bed. 

‘What about him?’

‘I’m just… trying to make sure we’re careful about this, Tim,’ Jason said in a low voice. He hesitated, his mouth fixed in a straight line, trying to convert feelings and thoughts into words. ‘He could be feeding us this information as bait. We can’t trust him.’

Tim pursed his lips, thinking about Jason’s visceral reaction to Ra’s when he had first contacted Tim. He knew he should have asked about it last night, probed a bit more while Jason had been more willing to be open, to be vulnerable. But truth be told, Tim had already deduced what the issue probably was. 

According to Bruce, Ra’s and Talia al Ghul were the ones who had not only kept the fact that Jason was alive a secret from him, but had thrown him into the Lazarus Pit and reawakened his subconscious; forcing his mind to reorder and remember who he was and what had happened against his will, without his consent. 

Jason had been brought back into a life that no longer wanted him, a life where everyone had seemingly forgotten about his existence, had erected their memorials, passed down his namesake and moved on from their mourning and grief. Tim couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like. How alone and scared and confused he must have been when it was just him floating in the thick, luminescent waters, with Talia al Ghul towering over him.

He had read all the files. Hell, he had stood there in front of a Lazarus Pit for minutes that had stretched into an ageless string of contradictions and fears, his reflection staring back at him through the eerie green ripples, thinking of all the people he could bring back with just a sample of it. Thinking of his mother, his father, Stephanie, Conner… seeing all of their faces float to the top of the murky depths even as tears blurred his vision. 

He knew what it could do to the mind, how it could break it, tempt it; push it so close to the edge that the temptation to jump off the edge, no matter the consequences, was almost too much to bear. 

He didn’t want to think about how it could break a person’s soul. 

‘I told you everything Ra’s told me, Jason,’ Tim began, slowly. ‘He figured out that Bruce is gone, that Dick took on the cape and cowl, and he believes the same thing we do: that Bruce is alive. That he’s out there somewhere.’ 

Jason scowled. ‘Ra’s probably only cares because he’s always considered Bruce his “most worthy adversary.” He only wants to find Bruce and prove that he’s alive because he can’t imagine life without him there to challenge him. Just like the—’ 

A dark look crossed his face and he turned away from Tim, hiding his mouth with his hand with a short intake of breath. 

He didn't need to continue, they both knew who he had been referring to. 

Tim tapped his finger on his knee as he bit his lip, searching for the right words to say. If there was anything he could say that would help. 

‘Look,’ he sighed eventually, folding his hands. ‘None of this means we have to trust him. Because I don’t. But we’re going to have to make some compromises… like, staying in contact, and giving him at least _some_ of the information he’s asking for as compensation.’ 

Tim held Jason’s gaze, searching his eyes. ‘Can you be okay with that?’

‘No.’ 

Jason stood abruptly and stalked away to the bathroom. 

‘But I’ll find a way to cope.’

* * *

_Easier said than done…_ Jason thought, scowling behind his red helmet as he passed by the shadow of two life-sized cavemen models, one holding a crude spear, the other skinning an animal carcass.

Tim had been talking in a low whisper with Ra’s over the comm for a good ten minutes as they wandered the silent, dark halls of the museum. To be fair, it was mainly Ra’s who had been doing the talking, and Tim looked beyond pissed; his mouth set in a firm, straight line beneath his cowl. But Jason was getting tired of hearing the faint sound of Ra’s’ smooth, sickening voice leaking from the comm.

Tim finally switched off his comm with a rough sigh, pausing to double check the museum floor plan and make sure they were heading in the right direction. 

‘Ra’s sure likes the sound of his own voice…’ Tim remarked under his breath, clearly trying to lighten the mood. ‘I’d tell him to go to hell, but he’d just come right back wouldn’t he?’

‘True… as, y’know, someone with personal experience in the “crawling back from hell” department.’

Tim’s mouth quirked slightly in a mixture of disapproval and amusement, and he threw a look at him. ‘Okay. New rule for our continued partnership: no more death jokes.’

‘Only _justice,_ ’ Jason returned in a low, gravely voice that could only be an impersonation of Bruce.

Tim coughed, pressing a hand again his mouth in an effort to muffle his laughter. 

He glared at Jason. ‘There are still guards on the other floors, you know. Seriously. _You need to stop.’_

‘Well, I won’t apologise for having a sense of humour, Timmy.’ 

They continued on in silence for a while, passing the Neolithic exhibition displays. Jason’s eyes lingered on one of the small, brittle skulls of an early Homo sapien for a moment before he forced himself to look away with a shudder. He almost bumped into Tim, who had stopped in front of a replica cave painting. 

‘Sorry,’ Jason muttered.

Tim said nothing, distracted, his eyes darting around the display cases. His body was tense and Jason could tell he was getting anxious as he entered the area dedicated to fossils. The light illuminated the worry, the frail hope on Tim’s face as he inspected each fossil, biting his lip.

‘You know… you really need to come up with a new alias,’ Jason remarked as he followed him around the room, trying to distract Tim from his rising anxiety. ‘Bruce would be throwing a hissy fit in his fake-grave if he heard us throwing your real name around mid-mission.’

Tim didn’t respond immediately, too focussed on the the fossil he was now frowning at deeply. ‘I was thinking I’d just go with Red Robin… seeing as that’s what the original owner of this suit went by.’

Jason had seen the dark look as it had crossed Tim’s face, before he turned away and crossed the room to another display case, and knew it wouldn’t be wise to probe.

‘“Red Robin,” huh…’ he said, his voice casual. ‘Does that mean we’re Red-squared?’

‘…What?’ Tim asked distractedly.

‘You know, Red and Red? Red Robin and the Red Hood. C’mon, you have to admit it’s got a ring to…’ 

Jason’s smile faded as he joined Tim in the middle of the room. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s not here, the fossil…’ he swore at himself under his breath, his jaw clenched in anger at both Ra’s and himself. ‘I should have known Ra’s would do something like this. How could I be so stupid?’

They stood there in silence as Tim sighed shakily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was near breaking point by now, his hands trembling as he turned away and looked helplessly around the exhibit… and once again Jason was reminded of how important finding Bruce was. How desperately Jason was clinging to that hope that Bruce _was_ alive. Not for himself, but for Tim’s sake.

‘Maybe Ra’s didn’t know,’ Jason spoke up, damning himself for giving Ra’s the benefit of the doubt. 

He stalked away from Tim, searching amongst the display cases and fossils until he found what he was looking for. Tim joined him in looking at the empty display case, muttering to himself and already on his computer as he read the printed sign informing them that the fossil had been “removed for restoration.” 

In his eagerness to find the fossil, his expectation that it would be there waiting for him just like Ra’s had said, his eyes had glossed right over the sign without registering it. 

‘There are two restoration and conservation labs,’ Tim said, his voice rushed and quick, frowning at the floor plan. ‘We’ll need to split up and check them both. I’ll take the one on the first floor. Contact me if you find it.’

Jason went to respond, but found that Tim was already gone, his cape flowing behind him dramatically as he stalked out of the room. 

_He really doesn’t cope well with plans changing, does he?_ Jason thought with a small shake of his head, following after him and then turning to the right. 

Seeing as Jason’s idea of a “plan” was more just a general thought or motivation the majority of the time, none of this bothered Jason. All Robins were used to adapting to the unexpected, but it seemed some were less affected by foiled plans than others.

Jason halted in front of the door to the second-floor restoration lab, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the security code box. Reaching into one of the small pockets on his belt, he pulled out a small container of black powder and a brush, and gave the security box a light dusting.

_Tim probably has a fancy scanner, but I’m just old-fashioned like that… and broke._

Suddenly, he began to miss the days as Robin when he had access to all of Batman’s batgadgets and gizmos. It had been a dream come true for a nerdy teenager, but that was before he had to spend all his money on guns and ammunition and the like. Ah, adulthood. 

Fingerprints showed up on the numbers, and a quick glance over gave him a few options for the most likely order. He tried the first set and was denied access by a flash of green text across the small screen. 

Jason frowned, his eyebrows knit together. He knew that he probably only had three attempts before an alarm went off, and went for the second combination, apprehensive. 

_“Access Denied.”_

He stood there for a moment, staring at the box and briefly contemplated the idea of contacting Tim and asking him for one of his hypothetical high-tech hacking contraptions, before he threw caution to the wind. 

Muttering under his breath, he punched in the third combination of numbers. 

“ _Access Granted.”_

The door clicked as it unlocked, and Jason opened it cautiously, stepping into the quiet buzz of dormant apparatus in the dark room.

It reminded him too much of a hospital: the stark white of the walls, the blinding lights that came on automatically, microscopes, gloves, liquids and an assortment of other equipment, all neatly ordered and sitting on trays as if in preparation for an operation. 

Various artefacts were scattered about the room. Most of them appeared to be fossils or stones, and Jason studied each one of them carefully, hoping he had the right room, frustration and nerves blending together and building up inside him. 

_If Ra’s has been lying to us this whole time… I swear to—_

_‘Jesus Christ,’_ Jason breathed, stopping in his tracks as he stared down at the fossil that sat on the table, his heart racing. ‘It’s true…’

Preserved in the millennia-old stone was a shape that was all too recognisable; sharp edges meeting with sloping curves that whistled through the air when thrown, cutting through wind and rain and darkness till they found their targets… all of Gotham would have been able to recognise it. 

He reached out and allowed his finger to rest on the edge of the protective cover…

It was a batarang.

Suddenly, Jason started, swearing vehemently as a piercing alarm tore through the silence.

 

_Tim’s gonna kill me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take no credit for the sentence: ‘I’d tell him to go to hell, but he’d just come right back wouldn’t he?’ as I lifted that straight out of the comics... it's a brilliant line. ;)
> 
> ALSO if anyone speaks Russian and wants to correct my one usage, PLEASE. YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE.


	7. Chapter 7

Any sense of calm that Tim had been feeling for Jason’s sake last night had now been completely driven out of his mind by the familiar, muddled cloudiness that his anxiety always seemed to bring with it. He clenched his fists, making his way down the grand staircase of the museum, boots tapping against the marble surface lightly and echoing off of the cavernous dome ceiling. 

Nothing was going to plan, which meant that everything was going wrong. 

Every single internal dialogue and voice within his head was now overtaken with criticism and chastisement for being such a complete and utter idiot. Of course Jason was right. He should have known not to trust Ra’s al Ghul. He was likely hiding information and keeping his secrets, sending him on a wild goose chase so as to give himself a head start in his search for the great “Detective.” 

How could he really trust anyone anymore? According to his closest friends and family, he couldn’t even trust himself and own sanity, and tonight’s events seemed to prove just that. 

Suddenly, Tim was more than simply angry; he was livid. 

Taking the comm out of his utility belt, he turned it on and placed it to his ear, eyes burning as he stalked through the Polynesian exhibit. He tried to ignore the brightly-coloured wooden masks that leered at him with grotesque, open mouths, taunting from behind glass when he passed. But they only filled the back of his mind in disconcerting shrieks and mental images that flashed across his vision. 

He stopped by one of the display cases and attempted to bring his breathing back under control. He hadn’t even registered the small panic attack until the masks. But he had been dealing with these for a long time, they were nothing new. 

‘Dammit Ra’s, pick up,’ Tim said to the spectrum of masks, his thumb and forefinger rubbing tired eyes. Trying to stop the trembling. 

The line crackled, and the unperturbed voice of Ra’s al Ghul finally spoke, helping his attention to latch on to the present. The now. 

_‘Ah, Timothy. I must say I am surprised that you chose to contact me again so soon.’_

‘What is your end-game, Ra’s?’ Tim seethed. 

There was a brief pause as Ra’s considered his words. _‘I’m afraid I am quite at a loss for what you mean, Timothy. I have already explained to you my reasoning and motives for seeking you out.’_

‘The fossil. It wasn’t in the exhibit.’

_‘I see…’_ the voice of Ra’s mused pensively. _‘And, naturally, you assume this is because I lied about the existence of the fossil to distract you from your search for the Detective.’_

‘I don’t assume anything,’ Tim said, trying to convince himself it was true. 

He could practically hear Ra’s smile down the line.

_‘Oh, but you do, Timothy. You assume a great many things… as do we all. For example, I assumed that you would only agree to cooperate with me if you were at the end of your rope. And here you are, contacting me willingly.’_

‘I haven’t agreed to anything yet. You said, in your own words, that you were giving me this information as a token of trust.’

_‘True,’_ Ra’s al Ghul agreed solicitously. _‘And I certainly intended it to be just that. But I never suggested that I would provide you with all the— how should I put it… “finer details.” I anticipated that after you found the fossil, you would not contact me again. I am not one to put all my cards on the table, nor all my eggs in one basket. Of course, had you simply agreed to collaborate with League from the start, this would not have been an issue.’_

‘What do you mean by that?’

_‘Well, if you had, say, maintained more permanent contact with me and allowed my operatives to aid you, I could have told you that the fossil you are looking for is in the second-floor restoration lab. I also could have told you, that it is fixed with several highly sensitive alarms. And that the Red Hood is about to set these alarms off, even as we speak.’_

Tim froze, opening his mouth to reply, when red flashing lights suddenly lit up the dark hallway, a deafening alarm piercing the silence and beating against ear drums in a tribal, jolting rhythm. 

‘Dammit, Ra’s.’

_‘Language, Timothy,’_ Ra’s chastised him, his tone light. _‘But, as you have more pressing matters at hand, I shall leave you be.’_

The line clicked, and Tim yanked the comm out of his ear, internally berating himself yet again for failing to plan for all eventualities. A small part of him even briefly considered how grateful he was for the fact that Bruce wasn’t here to see him now. Wasn’t here to see his failures. 

The masks were laughing at him, mocking him. 

Tim punched one of the display cases, cracking the glass and leaving a red streak of blood. It dripped like a kaleidoscope through the sharp edges. Tim hugged his fist to his chest with a sharp intake of breath. 

He ran back the way he had come, disoriented, almost knocking over an intricately-painted, ancient pottery vase as he rounded the corner and sprinted up the grand staircase again. He could hear one of the security guards chasing after him, the warning shout for him to show himself growing closer and closer, until he was caught in a beam of harsh light, frozen to the spot. Roadkill. 

In the short span of time between the security guard laying his eyes on the costumed-vigilante and opening his mouth to yell “halt!”, Tim had disappeared behind a pillar and slipped away into the shadows, leaving the baffled guard behind. 

Though it seemed futile to hope for at this point, any attempt to prevent tonight from developing into a huge international incident would be made. 

_Not that it will really make any difference at this point. We’re already screwed. And thus ends the short-lived career of Red Robin._

The self-deprecating, sardonic narrative resettled into his mind, and he could feel the anxiety being pushed down, choked by the realisation that nothing really mattered anymore. Not that it was a particularly encouraging thought, but it at least brought him a sense of calm, grim acceptance of his fate that anxiety always attempted to subvert. 

Tim opened his other comm link as he ran down an empty hall, passing through the arches and pools of moonlight the fell across the patterned mosaic floor, illuminating his steps before him. 

‘Hood? Hood are you there…?!’

He received no response, and realised that Jason may have already bailed on his own. It was the smart thing to do after all. 

_Well there’s no way this can get any worse, right?_ he thought to himself, then shook his head with gritted teeth. _Really, Tim? Because this is the_ perfect _time for sarca—_

He whipped out his bo staff just as someone came hurtling out of the dark hallway, bringing it to a halt inches away from the stranger’s neck.

‘Easy, Red. It’s me,’ the shadowed figure said, the familiar voice wavering, caught between level and irritated as he threw his hands up and stepped back.

There was a moment’s hesitation, the sirens still ringing in both their ears as Tim registered the red helmet, the leather jacket, Jason’s calm but stiff pose. 

He lowered his staff. 

‘We need to go,’ he said shortly, turning his back on Jason before all the anger and panic could burst out in a stream of accusations. 

Jason grabbed hold of his arm firmly, stopping him. 

‘Tim, wait,’ he said. 

And something in his tone forced Tim to stop in his tracks. But he also heard the guards’ rushing footsteps, their muffled, rough voices reverberating in the chasms of his mind pricking his nerves until he could keep the rush of boiling emotions down no longer. 

His bloody fist uncurled. 

‘Every time, Jason,’ he snapped, bitter poison melded to his words, rising to the surface and spilling out. ‘Every time. You told me you would follow my lead, but you never do. You didn’t even have the sense to check for an alarm before touching something! You don’t care about whether or not this becomes an international situation. So where does the line get drawn? Does it include my “no-killing” rule, or were you just planning on going blind my back. On waiting until I’m not around to—to… I—’

Tim stammered, watching Jason apprehensively as he knelt down to the cold marble floor, setting down a protective black case and unlatching it. 

His heart raced as it opened, and he saw the dusty stone, the familiar shape that was embedded into it. 

It hit him like a tidal wave, washing away the raging anxiety and panic that had been dominating his mind but a moment before. An epiphany that felt like coming up out of the deep waters of the ocean for a breath of air, and finding the warm sun shining on the surface. 

‘Oh my god,’ he breathed. ‘He’s alive. Bruce is really alive.’ 

‘Congratulations on not being crazy,’ Jason said, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he looked up at Tim through his red helmet. He was smiling under it. 

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but was cute off as the massive double doors at the end of the hall crashed open, giving way to a huge, towering mountain of a man, dressed in ancient Germanic warrior’s clothing.A crude axe wielded in one hand and three chained Rottweilers in the other, he surveyed the scene with a scowl, his beady eyes narrowing at the sight of the to intruders. 

_‘Prepare thieves… prepare yourselves for the hunt! For I am… the Wild Huntsman!’_ he roared in rough German. 

A unit of armed police trickled in after him, shouting in German and training their guns at them.  
_‘Hands behind your heads and down on the floor! Or we shoot!’_ one of the officers barked at them, the threat in his voice carrying through loud and clear. 

Jason and Tim looked at each other. 

‘I’ll take the big guy, you take the guns?’ Tim said beneath his breath, cautiously putting his hands behind his head in fake compliance with the officer’s orders. 

‘Yeah, I draw the line at dogs,’ Jason responded cooly, closing the case again and pushing it back behind them. He crouched, hands floating above his holsters, ready to grab his guns. He frowned at the oddly-dressed warrior. ‘Who is this guy anyways?’

‘There was a Global Guardian called the Wild Huntsman… but he’s supposed to be dead.’

‘Who isn’t these days?’ Jason returned with a smirk. ‘So. Are we doing this or not?’

Tim waited until the police were a bit closer then let out a deep, controlled breath. 

‘Okay… _go._ ’ 

They moved as if they had been working together for years. Fluid, like two arms joined together to one body. Jason dove head-first into the fray, guns-a-blazing: the distraction. The Huntsman took his eyes off of Tim for less than a second, flicking over to face the more obvious, immediate threat before him… 

But that was all Tim needed. 

His bo staff shot out like a viper, swinging in an arch across his body and catching the Huntsman in the side of the head. Normally, it was a dangerous strike that required a careful regulation of power; too hard and you could crack open a man’s skull. But it seemed the Huntsman’s skull was too thick to even scratch, let alone crack open. 

The giant fur embalmed man grunted, losing his balance slightly before he glowered down at Red Robin and seemingly growing twice his height. Tim found his neck craning upwards at the maddened warrior, watching in veiled horror as a great muscled arm raised the axe high into the air above his head. 

‘Ohhhh, fudge,’ Tim said.

He ducked backwards and the axe narrowly missed his face, whistling mere centimetres above his nose. Falling into a backflip, Tim sprung off of his arms and jabbed his bo staff behind him, taking out a strike team member that was in his way as he braced for the thundering German metahuman. 

_‘Take him my hounds! Feed!’_ the Huntsman bellowed instead, keeping his distance.

Tim had forgotten about the dogs.

_Ow._

He gritted his teeth against the pain as one of the dogs caught his arm in its mouth, firmly latching on. Making a mental note to put peanut butter in his utility belt for next time, he gave one of the dogs a kick, sending it tumbling back into the other two. Tim winced as they let out a pitiful whine. 

_Yeah. That made me feel like a terrible person. Sorry, puppies._

Suddenly he was avoiding a shower of bullets from one of the strike team. Rolling on the floor, he hid behind a large marble bust of Plato, and found himself searching for Jason amongst the wreckage. Tim drew a sharp breath, jerking his head back when another bullet flew past his ear.

‘Uh… Hood? A little help here?!’

‘Working— on— it!’ Jason yelled in between punches before taking aim and shooting the guy in the hand with a rubber bullet. From the other side of the room. The officer went down to his knees with a cry, grasping his likely fractured hand in agony. 

Tim would have allowed himself to be impressed for a little longer, had he not suddenly spotted the glinting axe come swinging towards his neck, clearly looking to decapitate him.

He ducked and it embedded itself into the marble bust behind him with a crack. A splintering of white, marbled dust fell to Tim’s shoulders like snow and he shuddered, trying not to think about what how motor reflexes such as muscles twitching can still occur after a head has been decapitated. 

It also didn’t help that his mind was currently being tugged, it seemed, in a total of fifty directions, with the majority of them gravitating towards the recurrent realisation that _Bruce was alive, and he could prove it._

But Bruce would have to wait.

_Come on, Tim. Focus._ Tim gritted his teeth and pivoted off the floor, going for an old-fashioned punch in the jaw. 

He immediately regretted it as he heard one of his knuckle bones crack unpleasantly against the rock that was the Huntsman’s face.

_OW._

He clutched at the Huntsman’s wiry, muscled arm as he was lifted off the ground by the neck, gasping as his tight gripped put a little too much pressure around his larynx. His vision blurred and he cried out as his head was hit against the wall, pinned in place. 

The Huntsman glowered at him, but it was hard to blame him. Tim knew he was the one in the wrong here. He was the one breaking and entering and stealing ancient artefacts from a museum.

_‘This hunt is over! You have skill, kleine Mann. You amuse me.’_

Tim frowned at him in confusion his head spinning as he tried to focus on the scowling mass of muscle in front of him.

_Did he just call me a clown baby? No, Jason would have reacted more to that. My German must be worse than I thought. Or maybe it’s because I’m being choked…_

Tim could vaguely hear his name being called out— not his real one, he registered mentally with relief— and knew that Jason was trying to fight his way over to them. 

But Tim didn’t have that long. And some part deep down inside of him still worried about Jason. He hadn’t been bluffing or speaking in the heat of the moment when he had brought Jason’s adherence to the “no-kill” rule into question, though he would never admit that to him. Because he knew that would ruin whatever progress they had made in their relationship. 

His mind ran through his options, churning a total of seven possible manoeuvres to get out of the Huntsman’s grip… but only one of them didn’t involve breaking bones. 

_There’s nothing to it. Even if he did just try to decapitate me, I don’t want to hurt him. But I don’t have… much of a— oh, no._

Tim hardly had time to register the flash of light out of the corner of his eye before his body was moving instinctively. 

Sniper fire hurtled through the window in slow motion, shattering glass and the marble bust of a Roman emperor behind him as Tim pushed off the wall, using every muscle in his body to bring the Huntsman toppling down and out of the line of fire. 

He felt a slight twinge of pressure in his side, but it faded quickly and he ignored it, lying on the cold marble floor beside the Huntsman and breathing heavily. 

_‘So… you brought friends with you?’_ the Huntsman growled resentfully in his ear. _‘No matter. The Wild Huntsman will—’_

_‘Shut up and stay down,’_ Tim cut in, the German coming surprisingly naturally even in the heat of the moment. His mind and heart were racing with adrenaline as he took in the situation, ordering it in his mind, remedying his plan and formulating a new one. 

It was the League. That much was obvious. In spite of his clear demand that Ra’s keep himself and his lackeys out of this, here they were, adding yet one more complication to an already complicated job. Owens, the sniper, had taken the shot from outside. Z and Prudence, the other two Leaguers who had attacked Jason at their hotel in Paris, were now taking out the leftover police that Jason hadn’t gotten around to yet. Z was using his unique variation on Capoeira that he and Jason had witnessed in Paris. Fast and agile, his strikes hit exactly where he intended them to land, taking out men left and right. 

However, Tim’s biggest concern was neither the sniper, nor the skilled martial artist… but the seemingly inexperienced, young and homicidal Brit that was now moseying towards them. 

Prudence cocked her guns in a lazy manner and smirked at the Huntsman. 

‘Hi. We’re going to kill you now, you viking prick,’ she drawled her two guns trainedcasually on the snarling warrior. 

Tim briefly considered throwing himself in front of the Huntsman again, but he wasn’t positive that would actually prevent the trigger-happy, British punk rocker wannabe from riddling him with bullets. So he pulled out his throwing discs instead, hoping his aim and speed had improved enough.

Before he could let them loose though, there was a flash of red as the Red Hood punched her square in the mouth. He kicked her guns away with practiced movements before turning on Tim. You didn’t have to see Jason’s face to know he was beyond angry, it was all in the way his muscles tensed, the way he carried himself. His every movement expressed emotion. 

‘You called for back-up form Ra’s?’ he said, his voice incensed, biting. ‘Did you just… _assume_ I was gonna mess up or something? Is that it?’

‘Hood. We don’t have time for this,’ Tim said, the name tasting bitter and distant in his mouth, iron melting on his tongue. He suddenly felt tired, but pushed through the bleary exhaustion and brought his bo staff back quickly, striking the Huntsman on the bridge of his nose to prevent him from throwing his axe. 

Tim leaned on his staff for support as he stood and stalked past Jason, pointedly ignoring him. 

‘I’ll neutralise Z, you watch Pru and make keep and eye out for the Huntsman,’ he told him, his voice colder than he meant for it to be. ‘Don’t let them kill each other.’ 

His eyes wandered to the fossil case, checking to make sure it was safe before returning to the assassin that had just taken out the last policeman; non-lethally, Tim prayed, gritting his teeth as he flung two discs at Z’s head. 

A flicker of surprise crossed the assassin’s face as he dodged the discs flying towards his head, and whipped out a large, curved knife from its sheath. 

‘This is between us. No one else needs to get hurt,’ Tim said warily, wielding his bo staff, poised for defence.

Z’s eyes narrowed in a cross between genuine confusion and disbelief. ‘“Between us?” You misunderstand… we’re here to _help_ you.’

Tim lunged forward, his bo staff striking out, and Z caught it with his knife in a parry. ‘You mean: you’re here to help yourselves to the spoil for your Master. Well, nice try. I’m not letting Ra’s get his grimy hands on that fossil.’

‘No, that’s not why we’re here,’ Z pressed, clearly growing frustrated. ‘The League of Assassins is at your disposal, under the direct order of Ra’s al Ghul. These men were getting in your way—’ he suddenly grabbed Tim’s bo staff and used it to vault off the ground, landing a kick into another police officer. ‘—so the League is going to take care of the problem.’

It was the tone of his last sentence that confirmed Tim’s fears. He saw his own staff being jabbed down towards the policeman’s neck, a lethal, dangerous blow that could be fatal or debilitating, and grabbed Z from behind. 

A sharp British accent suddenly filled the air in a string of every offensive word that had been used since the dawn of time. Tim glanced over in her direction and watched as Jason struggled to get up from where he had been thrown to the ground, his helmet cracked. Pru dangled off the floor as she fought against the Huntsman’s iron grasp. 

‘—fucking kill you, you viking prick!’ Pru was yelling in a hoarse, choked yell, her arms and legs flailing. ‘—I’ll kick you in the bloody nuts, you bastard!’ 

_‘Ladies should not use such vulgar language,_ ’ the Huntsman said disapprovingly, scowling at her and raising his axe to the air again. 

_‘And men shouldn’t be misogynistic assholes,’_ Jason countered, shooting the Huntsman in one of the only places he, along with half the human population, seemed to be vulnerable.

The huntsman doubled over, dropping Pru in a heap on the floor. 

_There’s no way this could get any worse…_ Tim told himself bitterly.

Suddenly, a familiar grenade-like object rolled into the middle of the floor, catching his attention. He heard Z let out a short, rough sigh. 

‘Shit,’ Jason swore. 

Tim, Jason and the Leaguers knew to shield their eyes when the grenade exploded in a flash of light. The Huntsman didn’t get the memo in time. 

As he yelled in blind rage, Tim released Z, blinking several times to allow his eyesight to readjust and dove for the fossil. His hands found the case, and he breathed out deep and slow, clutching it tight in his hands. When he stood, Jason was there beside him. 

‘SWAT team,’ he said quickly, ‘the League is already gone, we should follow suit.’  
‘Yeah, let’s go.’ 

 

It wasn’t hard to slip away in the midst of all the chaos as the SWAT team burst their way in. They used their grappling hooks and swung out of the building before heading toward the nearby park to lie low for a while. 

Jason glanced at Tim suspiciously while they ran, and even Tim couldn’t ignore the slow, heavy way his body was moving, every muscle screaming at him to stop, aching, his breath shallow and audible. He clutched the fossil case to his side. 

They jumped over the iron fence surrounding the park and found refuge behind a hedge of bushes that hid them well. The sound of cars and shouts as the special ops team began to search the area was distant, and Tim hoped they wouldn’t get too meticulous and search the whole area. 

Jason was silent beside him, hands on his hips as surveyed the woods. The only sound in the park was their own heavy breathing. 

‘I… I didn’t know… they were there,’ Tim said between breaths, breaking the silence weakly as Jason pulled his helmet off. ‘I told Ra’s to… keep himself and his League away from us… I didn’t think… he— what are you doing?’ 

Jason ignored him, yanking the case out of out of Tim’s grasp and brushing his cloak to the side. He said nothing, his lips pursed, eyebrows knit together in a mixture of worry and anger as he looked up at Tim, eyes burning through dark, sweat-drenched hair. 

‘What the _hell,_ Tim?’

Tim’s gaze dropped down to his side, and he stared at the blood as if noticing it for the first time. His stomach turned violently in a moment of controlled panic, his eyes focussing on the bloody fluid seeping through red fabric. A spasm of pain crossed his face, and Jason and he both knew that whatever amount of adrenaline had been numbing the pain, had just worn off. 

‘Oh. I… forgot—’ he sucked in his breath, and Jason grabbed a hold of his shoulders, lowering him down to the ground slowly as his body sagged under the waves of pain.

‘Lie down,’ Jason ordered. 

‘Honestly. I’m fi—’

‘Shut your fucking mouth and lie down, Tim.’

Tim complied with some difficulty. As he lay there, he worked on regulating his breathing and trying not to think about the rush of events that had just occurred. Jason stripped off his jacket roughly, his face shadowed in the dark alley, and worked it under under Tim’s body.

‘You do realise how hypocritical you’re being, right?’ he said, his voice low.

‘What do you mean…?’ Tim prompted distractedly, knowing this conversation was both Jason’s honest and quite frankly deserved anger being directed at him, and an effort to keep Tim conscious, alert until the danger of blood loss was averted.

‘You tell me I’m being too self-sacrificial, that I’m not looking out for my own safety in one breath, then in the next, you throw yourself in front of gunfire.’

‘Hey, we gotta take turns on these things. We can’t both die at the same time,’ Tim returned with a small grin that was quickly replaced by a grimace. Jason did not smile, and Tim sighed. ‘That was… different. I had to save him.’

Jason scowled. ‘That’s Bruce’s voice in your head. “Sacrifice yourself for the greater good.” “Always put others’ safety before your own.” Then you wonder why I die in Ethiopia at the age of fifteen. You chalk it up to rash, childish impulse when you know damn well who I got it from.’ 

Tim blinked up at him, then turned his gaze up to the clouded Berlin sky. 

_You're not Bruce, Tim. You don’t have to be like him._ he heard Jason press. But Jason’s voice sounded far-off, like he wasn’t really there. Or like, Tim himself wasn’t really there. 

And so, his mind wandered, loose and untethered, to the faces of Dick, of Alfred, of Cassie, and Steph, and all the others who had loved and doubted him. Who had made him question himself to the point that he thought he was just clinging to his own delusional grief. He saw Bruce’s face amongst them, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. 

‘Bruce is alive, Jay…’ he said quietly, tears stinging the corner of his eyes even as a smile crossed his face. ‘He’s alive. And I can prove it.’

Jason looked down at him, his gaze hard and concentrated. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it quickly and looked away, a weary look crossing his face. 

He nodded, his hand lingering on Tim’s wound.

‘Yeah… Bruce is alive.’

* * *

_‘Um… what do you mean his name isn’t “Drake” or “Wayne”?’_ Tam asked, her voice thin as she flexed the German muscle in her mind and tried her best not to show her utter frustration at this clueless man who was giving blondes a bad rep… i.e., making no sense whatsoever. 

The concierge blinked at the photo on her phone again and shook his head. _‘No… no, this is young Mister Draper. Alvin Draper.’_ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before giving Tamara an apologetic look. _‘He was a guest at our hotel… along with a Mister Peter Haywood. But they both checked out yesterday. I’m afraid you’ve just missed him, Miss Fox.’_

Tam leaned against the counter with an exasperated groan, and the concierge leaned back to avoid bumping her, straightening his tie awkwardly. 

‘Okay…’ she said, half to herself. ‘Okay. Um— _Did Mister… you know… Draper, say where he was going, by any chance?’_

_‘I’m afraid he neglected to share that information,’_ the concierge admitted, shuffling slightly. _‘But he and his friend did order a cab to the airport. Perhaps you could check there?’_

Tamara bit her lip, tapping a finger against the mahogany surface of the concierge desk as she stared at her warped reflection in the gold bell. 

_This right here, is one big, steaming-hot pile of bull—_

_‘Fräulein?’_

As more vulgar words bounced around in her head, Tamara managed a forced smile and thanked the concierge for his help before turning away sharply. She stuffed her phone into her bag and stormed outside into the grey, clouded streets of Berlin, standing there in the light rain and running a hand through her hair. Digging for he phone again, she dialled a number and pressed the cold device against her ear. 

‘Dad? It’s me. Tim isn’t in Berlin anymore. Can you find out where he’s gone?’

Tamara sighed and sat on the edge of the pavement, her eyes following the yellow lights of the tram as it rattled past her noisily. She closed her eyes, waiting for her father to call up the Berlin International Airport, and clung to the vain hope that Tim Drake and his friend had flown somewhere nearby… and warm… like Spain. Or Italy. Or France. She conceded that London wouldn’t be bad either. It was one of her favourite cities after all, and she could take the time to meet up with some old friends, or wander Piccadilly, or…

Tam brought her mind back to her father’s voice as he spoke on the phone. Dropping her bag to the wet pavement she bolted up and yelled down the line, her voice shrill:

‘—Iraq?!’ 


	8. Chapter 8

‘Tim. The security guard over there is staring at us. Can you at least _act_ like you’re not dying?’

Tim shot Jason a look as they moved up in the queue for passport control, instinctively letting his hand drop from his side where he had been holding his wound as if to prevent his guts from falling out. Because currently, that’s exactly what it had felt like he was doing. 

Even if it had only been a five-hour plane ride from Berlin to Baghdad, it had been five hours of pure misery for Tim. The pain-killers he had likely overdosed on had done next to nothing, and Jason had continuously glanced over at him with worry etched across his face like a tattoo. A grand total of three stewardesses had asked him if he was okay, and failed to be convinced when he politely insisted that he was “fine”. 

Because being shot in the side three times by a sniper counted as “fine”, right?

‘Do I look that bad?’ Tim muttered beneath his shallow breath.

‘Yes,’ Jason said, seeking glances at the several machine-gun toting security guards that peppered the busy airport. ‘You might have a fever, and the stewardesses were right. You’re even more pale than usual. Also, your breathing is definitely _not_ okay.’ 

Tim drew the sleeve of his red shirt across his forehead, and it came away in a smudge of sweat. He swore. They were next in line, and yet here he was, reaching out to steady himself on Jason’s arm, the buzz of the crowded security checkpoint only making his head fuzzier. 

‘Next,’ one of the passport inspectors said roughly, motioning at Jason with an impatient hand gesture.

‘Get your shit together,’ Jason hissed at him, squeezing Tim’s arm tightly before he stepped forward, shifting instantly from the shifty, suspicious vigilante to a calm, confident traveller that was definitely not doing anything illegal.

Tim shut his eyes for a second and fought the urge to just give up and run away. 

‘Next!’ 

He looked up and made eye-contact with the other passport inspector, a middle-aged man with a moustache who looked him up and down then frowned, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. 

Not a good sign. But there was nothing to it, he would have to talk his way out of this. 

Tim took as deep a breath as his strained lungs could manage and stepped up to the booth where the inspector was staring at him with narrowed eyes. 

‘Hello,’ he said, giving the man as non-pained a smile as he could muster and sliding his passport under the glass window. 

The inspector said nothing, reaching out and brusquely snatching up the passport, his frown seemingly deepening as he compared Tim’s photo to the sickly American teen that was standing in front of him now. 

‘What is your purpose here in Iraq, Mr. Draper?’ he asked in richly accented English, his tone blunt, cutting straight to it.

‘Sight-seeing.’ Tim responded easily, relieved at being spared the opportunity to butcher yet another beautiful language. 

‘And how long do you intend to stay?’

‘A few days to a week. I’ll be staying in Baghdad,’ he added weakly, grimacing even as he said it. Tim Drake was proficient at a great many things. Lying was not one of them.

‘Hm.’ the inspector grunted, giving the passport another look over before sliding it back under the window.

Tim reached for it, allowing every muscle in his body to release the tension and nervousness it had been clinging on to, but then realised that the man was not letting go. He looked up at him warily, meeting his gaze. Beneath layers of suspicion and professionalism, Tim thought he caught a glimpse, a rippling of concern, of worry, in the man’s deep brown eyes. It reminded him of the look Alfred always gave him when he tried to hide an injury, a look that knew the truth. 

The inspector leaned forward. ‘Are you sick, Mr. Draper?’

He hesitated, choked. The anxieties flooding in with the pain that shot up his side, reminding him that yes, yes he was very sick, because he had three bullets torn out of deep flesh just yesterday. 

So he choked, but only for a moment. 

‘I’m not very good with air-travel,’ he admitted, offering the inspector a weak smile. ‘It was a bit of a bumpy flight…’

‘Hm.’ the inspector simply said, still holding on to the passport. 

Tim’s foot tapped anxiously against the floor his eyes struggling not to avert themselves from the man’s searching gaze. Finally, he pulled his hand away from the passport and waved Tim on. ‘Welcome to Iraq, Mr. Draper. I hope you recover your health soon.’

‘Thank you,’ Tim mumbled awkwardly, grabbing his passport and turning away. 

He tried to control his steps, to slow down, act natural, pretend like he was absolutely _not_ hiding incriminating evidence that he was involved in the theft and international smuggling of rare artefacts. But it felt as if every single eye in the airport was on him as him as he walked away. 

Tim was tired, and not just because of the weeks of travel, the bumps and bruises and gun wounds, the nights spent crying alone in the dark as he tried to convince himself he wasn’t insane… that wasn’t why he was tired. 

Tim was tired of seeing everything through shades of grey, of not being sure of anything anymore, of compromising on things he used to think were non-negotiable. Things he used to regard as absolutes, lines to never be crossed.

More than anything, Tim was tired of being lost. And now, walking through the crowded, hot Baghdad airport, clutching his side again… he felt more lost than ever.

_What the hell am I doing here?_

His heart clenched in his chest as he felt the anxiety surging up within him, the first tremors of a panic attack closing in around his mind and body. His breath caught in his lungs and he looked up at Jason desperately.

Jason locked eyes with him and was by his side in a heartbeat, reaching out to grab a hold of Tim’s arm, holding it tight, a reassuring, grounding touch that steadied his mind, if only a little.

‘We’re almost out. Hang in there,’ Jason said under his breath, squeezing Tim’s arm as they walked outside in the blistering yellow heat with their bags. 

And for a moment, Tim thought he would be able to pull through. For a moment, he felt with clarity the reassurance that everything would be clear again soon rush over his mind in a gentle wave. For a moment, the simple realisation that Bruce was alive was enough to steady him, to calm him…

But only for a moment.

‘FREEZE!’ a harsh, military voice snapped through the air like a whip. 

Jason tensed up next to him as three armed US soldiers, all khaki and helmets and bullet-proof vests, trained their guns on them.

‘Hands in the air, now! Or we will _will_ shoot you,’ the sergeant moved towards Tim, his mouth fixed in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted together. 

There would be no negotiating or talking his way out of this one.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim caught Jason’s hand reaching down slowly to his bag, the fear burning in his face. He grabbed his hand roughly, keeping his gaze on the soldiers even as Jason turned to look at him in surprise.

‘No, Jason,’ he said through gritted teeth, letting go of his hand and raising his arms into the air. ‘Not this time.’

Jason opened his mouth to protest, but something about the firmness in Tim’s voice, the fact that he was too injured to get out of this in one piece, or the pure lunacy of the thought that trying to take on the US military was a “good idea” caused him to follow suit, lifting his hands in surrender and turning away, his face shadowed. 

‘What is this about, sergeant?’ Tim addressed the soldier cooly, all his anxiety disappearing in light of the sheer hopelessness of their situation. ‘I really think there’s been a misunderstanding here…’

‘Alvin Draper, Peter Haywood… you are being brought in for questioning,’ the sergeant said, lowering his gun. ‘The German government has requested US aid in recovering an artefact stolen out of Berlin... and both of you are persons of interest.’

Tim bit his lip, damning his stupidity. They shouldn’t have travelled so quickly after the museum job. Should have laid low for a while. But there was nothing for it now. It was over.

‘There really _has_ been a misunderstanding, Sergeant,’ a familiar voice spoke up from behind them.

_Oh, God._

Tim winced as they turned to face the speaker, who had casually walked up to the soldiers and was now holding up an ID card on a lanyard that read: “Zeddmore Washington, Wayne Enterprises, Director of Operations, Iraq.” 

His mind was spinning, too muddled to catch more than a few key words in the conversation the League assassin was now having with the sergeant. Beside him, the tension in Jason’s body only seemed to escalate. Tim followed his glare to the other two assassins, Pru and Owens, who were leaning against a red car, looking thoroughly bored and far too relaxed for assassins that were surrounded by a swarth of U.S. military.

‘—You must have Mister Drake confused with this Draper character and his accomplice,’ Z finished, looking at Tim pointedly, emphasising his real name. 

Tim gritted his teeth, realising the sheer amount of detail that Ra’s seemed to have access to about him. Of course he would know that Tim would be carrying both of his passports, that he would be able to play along with this little charade on the spot and act as if he had nothing to hide. More than scaring Tim, it made him angry to know that Ra’s al Ghul probably knew more about his private life than some of his closest friends in high school. 

But he could maybe forgive Ra’s this once.

‘Check his ID… their’s too,’ he heard the Sergeant say, his voice dubious, but wavering slightly with doubt, second-guessing himself. Z was good. ‘Slowly,’ he cautioned. 

Tim obeyed the Sergeant’s warning and slowly reached into his bag, specially-designed to give a false X-ray read on security scanners, and prayed that they didn’t search him. His fingers fumbled for his passport, groping past the smooth kevlar of his costume and cold, metallic surface of the throwing discs until he found his real passport, and produced it for the Sergeant to inspect. 

Beside him, Jason was doing the same, and Tim was relieved when he pulled out another passport and handed it over to one of the soldiers calmly. Of course Jason would have an arsenal of fake identities and passports to use when he travelled. Officially, Jason Todd was still dead. 

‘What’s your business here?’ the Sergeant suddenly asked, bringing Tim’s attention back to him. 

‘I’m supposed to meet with the head of Wayne Industries here to discuss some new business ventures,’ Tim said, trying his best to keep his head cool even as the mingled, dull pain and anxiety pressed against the lobes of his brain. ‘Bruce couldn’t make it, so he sent me… and said I could bring a friend.’ 

‘You brought a friend on a business trip.’ the Sergeant clarified, eyeing Jason suspiciously. Jason returned his look defiantly and Tim punched him in the face internally. 

‘I have anxiety,’ Tim said shortly, not having to fake his frustration at least. ‘I don’t travel well on my own, or with people I don’t know well.’

That seemed to take the Sergeant aback, and he looked almost apologetic as he shifted the weight of his gun awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, son. We need to be thorough with these things, you know…’ his eyes lingered on the passport again. ‘What exactly is your relationship to Bruce Wayne.’

_He’s the man who has saved my life more times than I can count,_ Tim thought with a pang of sadness. _He’s more a father to me than my biological father ever was. Everyone thinks he’s dead but he’s not, and I’m going to prove it._

‘He’s my adoptive father,’ he said instead. 

‘Clearance checks out, Sergeant!’ one of the other soldiers called out to him, and Tim once again damned the spread Ra’s’ influence, how he was able to control and manipulate governments and security checkpoints with such ease. He stared at Z, trying to search the killer’s sharp, green eyes, trying to see the terrified eyes of the men he had probably injured or disposed of to make this happen smoothly. A shadow began to grow in his mind, an idea forming, a warning that told him Ra’s had to be stopped somehow… even if his influence had gotten them out by the breadth of their hairs this time. 

Suddenly, he felt the dangerous tilting shift of body and darkened fading of the mind in his head. Tim tried to focus on the Sergeant’s words, tried to listen as apologies were said and the soldiers began to wander off… but the only words that registered sent him into a spiralling sickness.

_‘Thank your father for me. Bruce Wayne is a great man.’_

A pair of strong arms gripped him as he fell, bringing him to the ground slowly as he slumped there, fading from consciousness. 

‘ _Hang in there, Tim,’_ he heard Jason say, his voice tinged with worry. ‘ _Hang in there…’_

* * *

Tim stared listlessly at the thick, brown liquid that sloshed into his tiny painted tea cup from the silver _dallah_. Smooth like chocolate, the mingled aroma of various spices drifted up to him through the steam and nearly masking the smell of sweaty bodies, one of which was his own.

He shifted in his wooden bench seat, glancing around the coffee shop in another attempt to fully register and absorb his surroundings: the patrons, all men, talking voraciously in small groups, drinking their coffee, reading in silence over the rims oftheir glasses, scrawling in notepads; the shabby, yellow plastered walls, covered in framed pictures, mostly black and white, of the cafe and Baghdad; the rhythmic beat and undulating voice of an Iraqi _maqam_ music faintly straining through an old stereo. 

He was still feeling weak, sick to the core even after receiving some form of medical care from a doctor who had come to their hotel, said nothing, refused to meet Tim’s eyes, and been escorted out by the League once he had finished dressing the wound. Jason hadn’t wanted to stay at the hotel, but Tim needed someone to keep and eye on the other two assassins. 

And there was something more about Z. He didn’t know what it was, but as he had walked behind him, staring at his back on their way to the coffee shop, Tim had felt the tension build up between them; the need to delve deeper into this situation, to understand this assassin’s, this man’s, story.

Z had led him down dusty roads and crowded alleys to get to _Al-Shabandar_. The signs and flags hanging above him in beautifully scripted Arabic as they wove their way through the crowded book market. The rows of coloured book covers lining the narrow street reminded Tim of the back alleys in Gotham that would sell pirated DVDs for discount prices, the battered cases laying out across canvas, people bargaining and debating prices, people trying to make a livelihood in what seemed to be a hopeless situation. 

Here, in Baghdad, that hopelessness was laced with a certain stubborn endurance. Even sitting in the cafe, looking at the hardened, worn faces of the patrons around him, the pain that is seared into their eyes… Tim was able to see the strength, the faith that cut through their tumultuous lives and enabled them to dust themselves off and live another day. It was a strength Tim yearned for in this moment. A strength that he lacked.

‘In Iraqi culture, it’s considered a serious offence to refuse a host’s coffee.’

Z’s voice brought Tim back into reality. He looked up at the assassin’s arched eyebrow as he regarded Tim silently, sizing him up. As if he were trying to read Tim’s thoughts. He took a sip of his own coffee and placed the cup back down to the wooden table. 

‘It’s quite similar to the Japanese tradition of the tea ceremony, actually,’ Z continued, his tone light, if stiff, as he attempted conversation. ‘Important decisions such as marriage and peace talks are often held over a cup of coffee. It helps both parties to take their time, collect their thoughts, follow a prescribed order of proceedings so as to minimise conflict, and enable them to make decisions or saying things they will regret later.’

‘Are you playing matchmaker with me, or proposing peace?’ Tim said, the tired frustration cutting through the air between them.

Z smiled wryly. ‘I never much liked small talk either… I am not my Master. So I’ll just skip the formalities and be frank.’ 

He looked back up at Tim and held his gaze, the smile fading as they suddenly became the only two patrons in the cafe. 

‘Timothy. You won’t survive a day here without the help of the League.’

‘Did your “Master” tell you to say that? Because I was surviving just fine until the League started getting involved,’ Tim responded after a drawn out, stubborn silence, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

‘You’re not usually this arrogant,’ Z noted, hesitating slightly. ‘Emotion is clouding your judgement… just as it did in Berlin.’

Tim’s eyes narrowed. ‘You talk as if you’ve been studying me in secret for weeks, and then you wonder why I’m hesitant to work with you?’

‘I _have_ been studying you for weeks. So trust me when I say, I respect you enough to tell you the brutal truth.’ Z leaned forward. ‘This coffeehouse is also called _Al-Shuhada Maqhaa_ by locals. Do you know what it means?’

Receiving only a blank, noncommittal look from Tim, Z continued. ‘It means: “The Martyrs’ Cafe.” Less than two years ago, a car bomb went off destroying the entire street… including the coffeehouse we are sitting in right now. More than thirty people were killed in that attack, including four of the owner’s sons and a grandson.’

Tim fiddled with his cup, noticing a crack on the edge for the first time. He found his eye wandering towards an elderly man that sat near them, resting on his tanned, wrinkled hands, the way his back hunched with age as he smoked a hookah, staring out the open door listlessly. 

Tim breathed in sharply, staring back down at his cup. ‘I thought you hated small talk.’

‘…I would hardly call this “small talk—”’ Z began, frowning. 

‘Please, just—’ Tim’s voice broke off as a wave of sickness hit him again. He swallowed back bile, his breath shuddering, and continued. ‘Get to the point.’

Z watched him for a moment before letting out a short sigh. ‘This is not Gotham. Assuming you can make it past the many military checkpoints and patrols, you still have a whole desert riddled with land mines and insurgents to navigate. The League has contacts and a formidable reputation here. _We_ are feared… are you?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Tim finally ventured, his voice quiet.

The assassin hesitated slightly, unsure of what he meant. ‘…My loyalty is to the League of Assassins. I serve Ra’s al—’

‘No,’ Tim cut in impatiently. ‘No. Why are _you_ helping me, “Z”?’

The assassin blinked at him in surprise, opening his mouth to respond but shutting it, having second thoughts. He crossed his arms, leaning back on the bench and looking out the door towards the hot, dusty streets. 

‘This isn’t the first time our paths have crossed,’ he said finally. ‘I was a part of a group of men attempting to resurrect Ra’s al Ghul, several years ago. We encountered the Batman… and you. I fought to bring him back to life, something I’ve never had the chance to do as an assassin: to restore life, instead of take it.’

Tim turned away as his face broke in an incredulous laugh; short, bitter. 

Z did not laugh. Tim could feel his gaze fixed on him, tracing the lines of doubt that creased his forehead, reading beyond the passive, uncaring mask that was growing increasingly difficult to maintain.

‘I know what it feels like, Timothy,’ he probed. ‘To lose your focus. Your meaning. To be left with nothing. I was so lost. I look at you now, and I see a mirrored image of myself. I watch you, reeling from the loss of your father, desperate to bring him back, and am reminded of those dark weeks of despair spent wandering around in nothingness. I was able to come out of that, to bring my meaning back to life. And if I have the chance to do the same for you, I want to take it.’

‘You don’t know the _first thing_ about what it feels like,’ Tim said, his voice hoarse and on the verge of breaking. So he shut his mouth, clenching his cup of now cold coffee, hands trembling.

Once again, he felt that overwhelming urge to just run. He wanted to run away from Z, to run away from this man who no longer seemed to fit into his clear-cut black and white box of morality. The blood and buzz of conversation rushed through his ears as frustration clogged the recesses of his mind, muffling Z’s voice as he continues. 

‘This is your choice, Timothy. If you decide you would rather be stubborn and preserve your false sense of pride and morality, I will call off the League and we will hinder you no more. Doing so would be going against my Master’s orders, you understand. I risk much by doing this. But were I in your position… if I _did_ have a sense, the tiniest inkling for how desperately lost you feel right now, I would want the choice too.’

A throbbing pain at his side lapped against his body in waves, and Tim felt all desire to resist, to fight back, leave him. He looked to the bench across the room and saw Bruce, sitting there, staring at him through the other patrons, watching him carefully.

It felt like it had been an age since he had seen him, but Tim would have recognised that look anywhere. The disappointment, disapproval, wrapt up in a judgement that told him he wasn’t good enough, that he would never be good enough. That he was a mistake.

_The Sergeant was right,_ Tim heard himself say. _Bruce Wayne is a great man… but you are not Bruce Wayne._

‘Timothy,’ Z’s voice cut into his delusions sharply, and instead of Bruce Wayne he found himself staring into the eyes of an elderly man, frowning at him warily as he held his newspaper. 

Tim forced himself to take in one deep breath, measured, timed, before letting it out in a quiet exhale as he relented the guilt surrounding his decision. There would be plenty of time to face it later. 

‘All of you,’ he began, slowly, ‘you, Owens, Pru, and anyone else in the League who is involved, will follow the no-killing rule. That is my one condition. I won’t have you going behind my back, killing people left and right just to avoid detection or get us to where we need to be.’ 

‘I will have to speak with Ra’s al Ghul before agreeing to anything… you don’t exactly make it easy to keep you alive.’

‘Tell that to your sniper,’ Tim said under his breath, his voice bitter. ‘He seems to have missed the memo about that being your goal.’

Z’s face twisted into an amused smile as he watched Tim throw back his cup of thick coffee like a shot, a short laugh escaping him. 

Tim stared at him. ‘What?’

‘I was beginning to question whether or not you were the real Tim Drake, or a clone.’ Z nodded at the empty cup in front of him. ‘The real Tim Drake would have never left a cup of coffee unfinished.’

‘That’s probably the most accurate piece of information Ra’s has on me in his files… feel free to tell him.’

Z motioned for the waiter, pulling out change and placing it on the table. 

‘I will.’

* * *

Tamara stepped out of the limousine and slammed the car door on her Wayne Enterprises escort mid-sentence. And she only felt a little bit bad for it.

It was hard to blame her, seeing as she was extremely jet lagged, sleep-deprived, and had been hoping to be met with Tim Drake’s stupid face so she could go off on him for making her leave her internship just to chase his rich entitled ass around the globe. Instead, she had been informed in a slightly patronising tone by the escort who had picked her up from the airport that: “if Tim Drake were here we would know about it.” 

But asking if the name “Alvin Draper” meant anything to the escort had been the last straw. 

She let him get out of the car and scurry after her in silence as she lead the way into the WE Baghdad Branch Building where she would be staying until she found out where the hell Tim Drake-Wayne was hiding from his own company, and why the fake name he had been using had ties with an infamous art thief. 

‘“Art thief…” she muttered beneath her breath, drawing to a stop as she came face to face with two black-suited, sunglass-wearing men cradling guns in their hands. She half expected Will Smith to step out of the elevator, inform her that she “won’t remember any of this” and erase her memory. She half wanted him to. 

‘If you need to go anywhere, I’ll have a security escort at your disposal, 24/7,’ the WE representative informed her somewhat curtly.

‘That really isn’t necessary…’ Tam protested.

‘Yes. It is,’ he said without missing a beat, his face serious. ‘You can stay in the Wayne Suite while you’re here, Ma’am. 

Tamara pursed her lips, glaring at the keys he was holding out to her for a moment before taking them. Without another word, she brushed past the two security guards and stepped into the elevator, only allowing herself to curse once the doors had closed, leaning her head against the mirrored wall. 

The suite was nice, if minimalist; the only real decoration in the room being an expensive-looking work of modern art that hung over the bed. The warm glow of the setting Baghdad sun crept in through pillars of cloud and the gauzy curtains. Tam opened them, letting the light wash over her brown skin as she stood there with her eyes closed. She opened her eyes again and allowed herself to revel in the excitement of travelling to a new country as she gazed out at the golden glow of the city. The ornate spires of mosques and palm trees sprinkled amongst the tall buildings filled her with a sense of adventure and excitement. But only for a moment.

Tamara moved methodically, placing her carry-on luggage on the floor, drinking straight from the glass bottle of sparkling water in the mini fridge, taking out her earrings, stripping herself of her blazer and kicking off her heels before she collapsed on the bed, face-planting into the enormous pile of fluffy white pillows that she knew would now be smudged with red lipstick. 

Rich, entitled, white boy could wait until tomorrow. Sleep could not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Al-Shabandar is a real coffee shop in Baghdad, and the story about the owner losing his sons in the car bombing is true. I stumbled on the story during my research and felt putting Tim and Z's conversation in a real place would give it more weight. 
> 
> If you would like to know more about the cafe and its owner Hajj Mohamed Kazem Al-Khashali, or are concerned about the inclusion of this very personal and sensitive story, please see [this post](http://komadoriwonder.tumblr.com/post/160543693939/hi-i-just-read-the-latest-chapter-of-your-fic) on my tumblr. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Jason didn’t relax until he was holding one of the books in his hands, plucking it up from beneath a pile of newer books that cascaded across the unfolded cardboard box.

In the end, it was a worn, faded-red volume of Iraqi poetry that had caught his eye in one beckoning glance. He began to leaf through the dusty pages of Arabic text, paper and ink finally overcoming the sensory overload that was the buzz of a hundred conversations, the smell of street food, and the sting of sand and blinding sun in his eyes that had bombarded him the moment he had entered the book market on Al-Mutanabbi street.

The area he was currently crouching in was shadowed and cool. Passers-by were sparse, and the few that did pass went by Jason unnoticed as he settled on one of the poems, fingers propping the book open, his hand cupped carefully around the spine, balancing it.

His lips began to silently mouth the words, eyebrows furrowed in translation as the lines danced across his tongue like the licorice tones in a cloudy glass of arak, burning down the throat in its wake. The stall owner ignored him for the most part, occasionally glancing over at the strange young man with a curious interest as he chatted away with his friend about the weather and current affairs. Jason blocked their voices out easily, consumed by the poetic language that began to root themselves into parched earth, blossoming in bright, _jahanamiya_ shades of magenta.

Even if the poem was about the costly pursuit of freedom and individuality.

Even if the poem made him think about Bruce.  

Jason closed the book roughly and stood.

 _‘law samaht… bikam haadha al-kitāb?’_ he called out to the stall owner, holding it up. 

If the man was surprised that this foreigner could speak some form of Arabic, he did not show it, and came over to Jason.

After a minute or two of haggling, and only minor miscommunications due to the fact that Jason did not speak the local dialect, he walked away with the book tucked safely in his rucksack, meandering his way through the throngs of people once again. A sheen of perspiration soon formed across his forehead and back, the hot sun relentlessly beating down against Jason’s tanned skin. He peeled the front of his shirt away from his chest and used it to fan his body, looking down in surprise as a little girl ran past him quickly, her red dress, pink sandals and loose hijab a light-footed, giggling blur. Her mother followed after her a moment later, calm and demure, focussed completely on her child as she carried a bag full of fresh produce.

Jason turned away from them and kept walking.

After wandering for another ten minutes, the persistent dryness in his throat became too much to ignore. He stopped at a stall that was selling watermelon, the bright red slices of fruit drawing in a small crowd who all needed an escape from the 110 degree heat, and readily gave in to the craving. Jason was sliding coins across the table when the paranoia settled in his gut again. A stabbing, sharp sensation that constricted lungs and caused his stomach to roil in unprovoked, unknown fear. A mind-game he was all too used to.  

He tried to shake the feeling off, to focus on the conversations of the men standing beside him while taking small bites of the now warm fruit, but it was no use. His appetite had left him completely, as had all sense of control and desire to reason with his paranoia. So Jason played around with his fork instead, stabbing the flesh of the watermelon distractedly and scanning the surrounding area, his face the very image of unperturbed calmness even as his heart pounded with wrenching pain in his chest.

Jason’s body seized up when he saw her.

She was dressed like a tourist: jeans, a long shirt with a gauzy head scarf taming shoulder-length straight, black hair. She was shadowing her face with one hand, the other clutching a handbag tightly as she stared straight into Jason’s eyes with a disconcerted look of vague recognition…

_She knew him._

_Shit…_ Jason thought, blood rushing to his head as his fingers clenched around the fork tightly. _Shit._

The seconds seemed to lag, dragging their way across waves of heat as feet across sand dunes, before Jason was able to snap out of his panic and force himself to react.

He did not run, much as he wanted to. Much as he wanted to disappear or pull out his gun then and there. Instead, he turned and walked away from the vendor’s stall, leaving his half-eaten watermelon and cutting straight through the crowd, blending in as he always did.

Jason tempered his breathing, timing it to the beat of his boots grinding into the dusty road that lead him out of the book market and into wider streets, into congested shouts and blaring horns that kicked up clouds and rang in his ears. Every now and again he looked back over his shoulder or stopped and pretend to look at food or wares at one of the roadside stands, checking to make sure she was still following. Making sure she could keep up with him.

At first, he had meant to draw her away from the crowds to ensure any civilians’ safety;  just in case she had planned on attacking him in public. But the longer he led her on, and she blatantly followed craning her neck above heads to try and find him, the more it became obvious that she was probably not an assassin in disguise and instead exactly what she looked like: a tourist.

How and why she recognised him however was a mystery, and left him no choice but to confront her over it. The thought crossed his mind that she could be a reporter, or a journalist, and had simply recognised him from his days as Jason Todd, second ward of Bruce Wayne, but that made little sense given her young age.

There was also the fact that he was still, officially, dead.

The colours of the Haydar Khana Mosque stood out from the dust in a kaleidoscope of turquoise, sapphire and pale yellow, the dome and minaret breaking across the blue sky in a way that made the civilians passing by it seem small, insignificant and plain. Which was exactly how Jason felt as he sought refuge in its shadows, dodging cars and motorists to cross the hazy street.

He felt terrible, disrespectful, irreverent as he hid behind an abandoned pile of crates, shakily loading his gun with rubber bullets as his sweaty back pressed up against the stone of the mosque. A safe house, a place of worship… a holy building. It was a place he did not feel like he deserved to be. A place that whispered to him that he was not good enough.

_Abomination._

Jason leaned his head back against the wall wearily, staring up with numb, listless acceptance into the yellow streak of sunlight that filtered down into the dark alley, and waited for her.

A pair of running footsteps stopped at the end of the alley, the girl’s heavy breathing echoing as she hesitated briefly before moving forward into the shadows. She walked past Jason’s hiding place, hands falling to her side in defeat as she stared at nothing.

‘Crap…’ he heard her mutter, bitter frustration echoing through the quiet.

But Jason was more concerned with the weak but obvious undertones of a Gotham City accent that betrayed her tongue. A familiar sound wave vibrating through the unknown. Holding his breath, he watched her back as she stood there, staring at the seemingly empty alley, and slowly stood from his crouching position.

She turned to go, and Jason stepped out in front of her, blocking her way, his gun was hidden but within reach under his jacket. But that did not prevent her from taking two cautious steps away from him, eyes wide with dismay at being cornered in an abandoned alley filled with empty crates.

‘Care to explain why you've been stalking me all over Baghdad?’ he said, his voice measured and cool.

‘I… I wasn’t “stalking” you,’ she said defensively, wincing even as the word came out of her mouth.

Jason narrowed his eyes at her, suddenly wary. Something about the look in her deep brown eyes caused him to think that they had met before… that he _did_ know her.

‘Who are you,’ he asked, ‘and why are you following me?’

She pursed her lips and returned his gaze with a measured look, likely trying to decide how much she wanted to tell Jason. How much she wanted to hide.

‘Tamara Fox,’ she finally responded. ‘I saw you in the market and, well… I feel like I know you. Do you have some kind of connection to Tim Drake? Do you know where he is—?’

Jason raised a hand to cut her off, ignoring her questions as his thoughts latching on to her name in a reawakening of old memories.

‘Wait a minute… Fox. As in, Lucius Fox?’ he pressed.

Tamara’s face grew dark with guarded suspicion, and Jason let out a short sigh, running a hand through his hair.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to know why you were following me.’

They regarded each other for a one long beat, a stalemate of two stubborn personalities, hardened in different ways, waiting for the other to bend. But in the end, it was Tamara who yielded first.  

‘My father,’ she began slowly, ‘Lucius Fox, sent me to find Tim Drake-Wayne and bring him back to Gotham to help run Wayne Enterprises in Bruce Wayne’s absence. I… I don’t know why, but I thought I recognised you, and figured you must have some connection to Tim…’

She bit her lip, throwing a small uncomfortable glance towards the street that lay beyond Jason’s threatening figure. ‘Now I feel like I’ve made a stupid mistake.’

‘You already made a stupid mistake coming here,’ Jason told her roughly. ‘Why the _hell_ did your father think it was a good idea to send you here? Tim is gonna kill me…’

‘So you _do_ know Tim?’ Tamara snapped, her eyes fierce as she stepped forward. Though she was much shorter, something about her whole demeanour verged on threatening, and Jason actually flinched in her 5 ft 4” wake. ‘Where is he? And what exactly is your relationship to him?’

‘I… I can’t answer those questions right now…’ he said, avoiding her piercing glare and looking back to the street. ‘Are you out here alone?’

‘No,’ Tamara admitted with a wince, her face flushing. ‘I was being chaperoned by two Wayne Enterprise security guards, but I ditched them a while back. They’re uh… probably wondering where I am.’

‘You “ditched”—?! _Jesus_ , Tamara. Why would you…?’  

Running his hands down his face, Jason inhaled the hot, dusty air deeply, closing his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at galling mixture of “I’d do it again” and slight embarrassment that had entered Tamara’s face.

‘Okay. Listen. I do know where Tim is. And I promise I will send him by the Wayne Enterprises building later to sort this out and talk with you. But right now, you need to reassure the “Men in Black” that you’re safe.’

The corner of her mouth twitched in a small smile at that, but was quickly replaced with shadowed doubt and suspicion that creased her brow.

‘How do I know you won’t just disappear on me? I’ve been chasing Tim Drake across the globe for… wait what day is it now?’

‘Tamara,’ he said as patiently as he could. It was hard to be too frustrated with her; clearly she hadn't asked for any of this and just wanted to get it over with as much as Tim would. ‘I give you my word. I won’t let Tim Drake disappear again before he’s sat down with you and hashed this out. But you’re not safe alone…’

His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket, distracting him. He pulled it out and checked the messages, reading the two non-negotiable, one-word text messages.

_“hotel”_

_“now”_

_Shitty timing as ever,_ Jason thought, massaging his forehead and trying to decide what was preferable right now: Tamara’s probing questions, or Tim’s cold, injured anger. Then again, the vague nature of Tim’s texts left Jason in a constant state of worry as to the nature of the situation, whether it was an emergency or not.

_Much like a certain someone, who is also currently presumed dead._

He regarded Tamara, who rubbed her arm awkwardly, raising an eyebrow at his phone.

‘What?’ she snapped, her voice defensive.

‘I have to go,’ Jason told her stiffly, pocketing his phone and jabbing a finger at Tamara to get her attention. ‘Find your babysitters before they name the daughter of Wayne Enterprises CEO, Lucius Fox a missing-person and start searching the whole goddamn city for you. This isn't Gotham.’

He turned abruptly and stalked away from her, even as she called after him desperately.

‘Wait, where are you going? I don’t even know your name?!’

But Jason disappeared behind the corner on the mosque, and was gone.

He lingered behind a car, watching her from across the street as she searched the crowd for him, lip-reading her colourful swears until she began walking with intention back towards the market area.

Jason allowed himself a slow, steady exhale, pulled out his phone again and texted Tim.

 

_“we’re fucked”_

* * *

 Tamara leaned back in the cushioned sofa with a shaky breath as she ran her hands through her hair, still dusty and frizzy from the heat of the city.

Her fingers were trembling.

She tried to focus on anything else, on her half-unpacked suitcase laying on the floor, on the smell of a freshly-brewed latte coming from the coffee machine, on the bright light of the pregnant moon that cast silver light in through glass doors leading out to the balcony.

But she couldn’t take her eyes off of the computer screen, the eight-year-old editorial photo of Bruce Wayne, ruffling a young boy’s hair fondly. She couldn’t stop staring at those deep, brown eyes, filled with an almost earnest intelligence. The corner of his mouth was turned up in a small grin, his olive-toned face flushing slightly, hands shoved in his pockets as he and Bruce Wayne looked into the camera.

Tamara forced herself, once more, to read the name that followed Wayne’s in the headline and finally acknowledge the realisation that had been plaguing her mind for hours:

She knew this boy.

It was less a matter of mental or facial recognition, and more of a faint memory. An sense. A strong, overwhelming queasy feeling that forced her to close her eyes against the screen and take several long, deep breaths in retaliation.

It was the whole reason she had followed him in the market. The whole reason she had ditched her two chaperones with their headsets and sunglasses and suits. The whole reason she had ended up cornered in an empty alley behind a mosque.

It had been stupid, acting on nothing more than a feeling. More than anything, it had been _completely unlike you, Tamara_ , she heard her father’s disapproving voice tell her in her head.

But maybe that was why she had done it.

Tamara sank into the recesses of her mind, reaching for that vague memory, diving into the boy’s brown eyes and coming out into another world, another time, another her.

She is eleven, and follows her father’s wide, suited shoulders into the chandelier-lit Gotham Museum of Archeology. It is her first public appearance as a Fox daughter, and she is giddy with excitement even as she itches her sparkly, blue party dress.

_Back straight, Tamara. Smile, and mind your manners._

_Yes, Daddy,_ she replies, but one second later she is gaping at the large exhibit of a Tyrannosaurus Rex that looms over the party. And suddenly she feels herself shrink beside her older sister Tiffany, who glides into the room beside her like she owns it. Her father is shaking hands with Mr. Wayne and everyone is laughing and clinking glasses and mingling and chatting… and Tamara is alone.

She stands there awkwardly, wiggling pinched toes in her shoes and watching Tiffany talk to the young boy standing beside Mr. Wayne. She is using her fake socialite smile, exuding all the confidence and poise of a Harvard graduate that has already started her own company and makes 10k a week. Jealousy rushes through her ears, not in a sea-sick green like most people experience, but in shades of deep red punch.

People are staring, whispering behind their hands as Tamara looks down in horror at the server’s tray she has just knocked over. A pool of jealousy spreading across the marbled floor.

The emotions break, reeling, over the floodgates in great big prickling tears that roll down her ruddy cheeks even as she flees the scene, running away from her father’s voice— _disappointed, always disappointed_ _—_ out onto the shadowed balcony. She collapses behind one of the grand Roman columns, hiding her head in her arms and willing herself to disappear as the sobs rack her little chest in despair.

 _Don’t worry. Fancy parties make me want to cry too,_ a calming voice says, cutting into the quiet coolness of the night.

Tam turns her face up to look into the half-smile of a scruffy-looking boy, the boy that had been standing next to Mr. Wayne, talking to Tiffany. His tie is pulled down loosely, jacket undone, as he holds out a fancy cloth handkerchief.

Tamara sniffed, looking at the engraved initials for a moment before taking the kerchief from him.

He sits down next to her, his gaze fixed ahead at the starry night sky as Tamara blows her nose in an entirely unladylike fashion. She turns to watch him once she is done, staring at the book he is now tapping against his knee lightly.

He notices her looking at it and shows her the cover.

 _“The Bloody Chamber_ ,” _by Angela Carter,_ he explains. _It’s a retelling of the classic fairy tales that Disney censored and watered down, closer to the original stories. It has vampires, werewolves… a count that murders all his wives and hides their bodies in a locked room in his castle…_

Tamara makes a disgusted at him, but her chest is thumping with excitement.

 _That… that doesn’t sound like a fairy tale to me,_ she sniffs.

He raises his eyebrows, cracking open the book and smiling at her mischievously.

_Not all fairytales have happy endings…_

That memory certainly had a happy ending, Tamara remembered, her mind slowly refocusing on the present, the laptop sitting in front of her… those brown, laughing eyes that had been unafraid of anything in the whole world.

The boy had proceeded to summarise his favourite parts of that book, showing her the illustrations, drawing out the endings and not sparing any details as she held her breath in anticipation, squirming in the jacket he had draped round her shoulder. He hadn’t even asked her name or why she was crying. It was as if he instinctively knew that she just needed distracting, to be brought out of her own insecurities for a moment.

They had sat cross-legged, heads together for minutes that passed like quicksand through glass, and before she knew it, the party was over.  Mr. Wayne and her father found them there, and the boy helped her stand as Tamara listened to apologies being made on her behalf. She thought she remembered a slight scowl cross Jason’s face, a streak of cold anger in his eyes as he stood there beside her, but it was gone almost as soon as it had come. Mr. Wayne assured her father that there was nothing to apologise for, and smiled warmly at Tamara.

Before they left, her father placed a firm hand on her small shoulder and told her to thank… to thank…

‘Holy crap… it is him,’ Tam breathed, hiding her face in her hands as a chill breeze brushed rushed into the room, brushing through her hair.

In spite of the fact that she had closed the balcony door not an hour before.

Tam started, turning to stare up at the open doors and curtains that were billowing gently. Heartbeat racing, she stood slowly with the intention of getting the pepper spray from her bag, when a hand clasped over her mouth, silencing her muffled yell.

‘Tamara,’ a voice hissed into her ear even as she fought against their hold. ‘It’s Tim Drake.’

Tam blinked, turning her head slightly, and found herself looking up at Tim Drake-Wayne. In the flesh.

‘I’m going to let go,’ Tim said, his voice low and wary. ‘Promise me you won’t scream?’

Tamara gave him a small nod of her head, managing to throw him a glare as he carefully removed his hand from her mouth and stepped away cautiously, frowning back at her with obvious discomfort.

‘I’m sorry for sneaking in like this… but I had to meet you in secret. And you have two guards standing right outside your door.’

‘Who are apparently _useless_ ,’ Tamara hissed. ‘How did you even get in here?’

‘I’ve done a lot of spelunking with Bruce,’ he said in a measured sort of way that sounded suspiciously like he had planned this response ahead of time. ‘Exploring caves, that is. It wasn’t too hard to scale the outside of the building… with the right equipment. And you left your balcony door unlocked.’

‘Well, thanks for knocking,’ Tam said, the anger freely lashing out.

Tim didn’t respond, and they stood there in silence as Tamara took in the shorter version of the picture she had been mentally throwing darts at for the past week.

It had been easy to hate a picture, to hate the idea of Tim Drake, to hate the image that the camera captured and presented to the world in all its glossy, front-spread glory. But standing here in front of her, the dark circles under his eyes obvious even under the light layer of makeup, the nervous restlessness that lingered in his expression, the way his shoulders sagged as if weighed down by the world… Tam found she could not hate him. Not yet.

‘What are you doing here, Tamara,’ Tim prompted finally. ‘Why have you been looking for me?’

‘First… I need _you_ to explain something to me.’

Tam angled her laptop at Tim. ‘Explain to me why you’re running around with a dead boy.’

Tim grimaced at her word choice and leaned forward hesitantly, squinting at the photo on the screen for a long moment before recognition flickered in his eyes. He sat down heavily on the end of Tam’s bed, his expression empty as he rested his elbows on his knees.

‘It’s… a bit hard to explain,’ he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

‘But it wasn’t too hard to climb the Wayne Enterprises building and break into my room,’ Tam countered, her frustration piquing. ‘Why don’t you give it a _try_?’

Tim let out a rough sigh, running his hands downs his face in an attempt to collect his thoughts. Tam sat back down on the sofa across from him, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest tightly.

‘Jason Todd… never actually died,’ Tim began wearily, his voice slow, intentionally avoiding Tamara’s gaze. ‘His body was misidentified in Ethiopia. The one sent to Gotham wasn’t his, and Bruce was too grieved to run more tests. He didn’t want to drag out what seemed obvious. We found out years later that Jason had escaped before the explosion that killed the other victims being held for ransom. He was suffering from severe amnesia when he was discovered by locals. He had no idea who he was, they had no idea what to do with him. So they sent him to a nearby clinic, where he stayed until he began to slowly regain his memories. He came back to Gotham about a year ago, and he’s been living with us ever since.’

He finished and looked up at Tam, unflinching, as if inviting her to express the thought they both knew she was having.

‘That,’ Tam said, ‘is the most ridiculous pile of bull-shit I have ever heard.’

‘Which is _exactly_ why we hid Jason and his story from the press,’ he said, his lips pursed in latent, controlled anger. ‘Bruce knew no one would believe it. What happened to Jason was nothing short of a miracle. It was hard enough for him to accept. The press would have had a field day with conspiracy theories, and he didn’t want Jason to go through that while he was in recovery.’

‘Recovery,’ Tam clarified, frowning, doubt suddenly gnawing at the edge of her thoughts.

It was clear that Tim was dead serious, even if Jason wasn’t. The answer sounded rehearsed, but in a way that was for a police interrogation, or a jury; a “the whole truth and nothing but the truth” kind of answer. And Tamara could think of no reason for him to try and fabricate such a ridiculous story.  

‘Jason lived in Ethiopia for three years not knowing who he was or what he was doing there. The memories came back in bits, sometimes little things, sometimes in a rush, and… well, it was a lot to take in. So, yes. Jason has been in recovery for the past year. We’ve _all_ been adjusting.’

‘Jason Todd,’ Tam stammered, ‘never died?’

‘I know it’s a lot to take in,’ Tim offered in a neutral, detached tone.

‘So what the hell have you two been doing? Skipping around the globe and leaving my dad to run the company?’

‘I’m sure Lucius, uh, your father knows how eccentric Bruce can be sometimes. This sabbatical of his wasn’t planned, our world tour was.’

‘You rich boys think you can do just anything. Run away from your responsibilities and have them disappear just like that? Company representatives have been trying to get in touch with you for weeks—’

‘This was part of Jason’s rehabilitation,’ Tim cut in angrily. ‘We were preparing to reveal to the press that he was alive and Bruce thought it would be good for him to have one last month or so of freedom, travelling and relaxing. I intentionally cut ties with the company and only left my number with family because we were trying to keep this very low-key. We even used fake names to keep the press off our tail.’

Tam shook her head, trying to connect lines and make sense of this mess. Her eyes wandered back to the photo on her computer screen, staring at the boy that was meant to be dead. The boy that shouldn’t be alive. The boy that had sat with her that one night all those years ago and distracted her from her tears with stories of vampires and werewolves and bloody murder only to face his own tragedy.

_Not all fairytales have happy endings._

‘Okay,’ she said quietly, addressing Tim. ‘I’m sorry I just… well, like you said, it’s a lot to take in. But my father sent me to find you. He needs your help with the company, he can’t keep running it by himself without a Wayne there with him.’

Tim Drake considered this, considered her, for one long beat, and Tamara returned his gaze in an unspoken challenge.

‘Two more days in Baghdad,’ he said finally. ‘Then I’ll come back to Gotham. In the meantime, please don’t say anything to your father, or anyone else. I do trust him with this information, all of it, but I don’t trust emails or texts or phone lines.’

He stood and Tamara scrambled up after him. He raised an eyebrow at her.  

‘Are we good?’

Tam didn't say anything, she didn't have to. Tim's shoulders fell as he ran a hand through his hair with a short sigh. 

‘You still don’t trust me,’ he said. A statement, not a question. 

‘I don’t _know_ you,’ Tam corrected, pointedly.

‘Yeah, well I don’t know you either,’ Tim said, his voice more tired than anything else. ‘But I know your father is a trustworthy man, so I trust you by default. He’s also very smart. And to be perfectly honest, as much as it pains me to say it, you’re being smart too right now.’

Tam opened her mouth to respond, but instead watched as Tim pulled out a phone and casually began typing, his eyes fixed on the screen in concentration.

‘Okay. I just booked a flight from Baghdad to Gotham City on Friday morning.’ He showed her his phone and Tamara stared at the confirmation of purchase and itinerary he had been emailed. ‘Write down the flight number. I’ll meet you at the airport, and we can go back together.’

She hesitated, but only for a moment. She told herself it was okay to be paranoid about this, it was okay to feel completely over her head and confused because there was nothing normal about the situation.

‘Satisfied?’ Tim asked, pulling his phone back and putting it back in his pocket when she had finished.

‘I'm sorry, it's just...' Tam grimaced. 'Look. I've been I’ve been chasing you around all week.’

‘Yeah, no. It’s fine. I get it. I’m sorry you had to go to all this trouble to find me.’

He head back out onto the balcony and Tamara followed after him, shivering in the cold night air even as she clutched her silk robe around her tightly. She watched him take a hold of a climbing rope, attaching it to a harness she hadn’t noticed was around his waist.  

‘Are you seriously going back down the way you came up?’ Tamara said dubiously, staring down at the glittering lights of the city that lay below them. Her skin prickled at the great drop that loomed up at her, and she stepped away carefully.

‘Actually, I’m going back up the way I came down,’ Tim said, checking his rope before jumping up on the edge of the balcony.

Tamara gaped at him balancing there, the wind tugging at his clothes and long hair, silhouetted by the moon… and felt her heart skip a beat.

‘Don’t leave your security guards again, Tamara. In fact, it’d probably be best if you didn’t leave the Wayne Enterprises building again. I’ll see you Friday.’

And with that, Tim Drake began his ascent to the top of the building, disappearing into the darkness.

Tam followed him with her eyes until she was sure he was gone, then stepped back into the warmth of her room and locked the balcony door with a shudder. Unwilling to deal with the emotional and mental energy required to once more unpack and revisit everything Tim had told her, she wandered over to the coffee machine for her cup of coffee.

Her mug was empty. And Tamara decided right then and there that she hated Tim Drake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Jason is reading at the start is: "On Freedom" by Mahmoud al-Braikan. You can read it [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/uploads/documents/FifteenIraqiPoets.pdf).
> 
> "law samaht… bikam haadha al-kitāb?" translated hopefully means "Excuse me... how much is this book?" But please let me know if it's incorrect!!
> 
> jahanamiya: Bougainvillea flower
> 
> ・  
> ・  
> ・
> 
> My heart and thoughts go out to those affected by the bombing in Baghdad last week, targeting those breaking their fast on the first day of Ramadan.


	10. Chapter 10

****

‘We’re getting close.’

Z kept his hands fixed to the steering wheel as he glanced over at Tim Drake, who was pondering a navigational device that pinpointed their location and surroundings in curved neon lines of green, and blinking dots of red. One dot, their destination, was fixed, and the boy stared at it with an anxious, serious look.

‘That red dot’s not going anywhere, Tim Drake. You can relax a little.’

‘I just don’t want us to miss it,’ Tim returned, his voice distracted.  

Every muscle in his body was tense, Z could tell. When he was like this - dressed as Red Robin, with the cowl and cape and a drive, determination and focus that could rival Ra’s al Ghul himself… it was easy to forget that Tim Drake was only seventeen.

But age means little when you've been through the things that he has, Z thought, his face stony as he pushed back memories that plagued his own mind, his own meagre shadow of a childhood. 

Instead, he focussed on driving. 

Straight ahead loomed a great wall of ragged desert cliffs, like ominous storm clouds on the horizon; and, indeed, it felt in many ways as if they were driving straight into a storm. The armoured car jerked and lurched across the rough Iraqi desert, jostling them in their seats, and Tim reached up to grip the roof handle. Even with Z driving carefully on a prespecified route that he had meticulously planned and run over with Tim before they set out, it was obvious that this part of the world was not meant for humans to attempt to cross with their man-made machines. 

The rush of wind filled the car through the open hatch in the roof where Owens stood perched with the mounted gun, vigilant yet reasonably relaxed.

‘How are we looking, Owens?’ Z shouted over the wind, and the sniper popped his head back into the car. 

‘No sight of hostiles or activity so far… well,  _ outside _ , that is.’

Z checked the rearview mirror, his mouth twisting into an amused half-smile as he observed the “hostile activity” Owens had been referring to . 

Pru sat hunched in the back, her wiry, tattooed arms crossed like a moody teenager who had been dragged on a family road-trip and a face that could curdle milk. Every now and again she threw a writhing, disgusted glare at her stiff-backed companion, who had placed himself as far away from her as was possible in a tiny enclosed space. He had rolled the window down and was pointedly looking out at the desert with a cryptic, smouldering expression, fists clenched tight in his lap where his red helmet sat; lost in thoughts which none of them were privy to, save perhaps Tim Drake.

Z guessed that Jason had been given the same talk that Pru had been given prior to their departure. A talk that had boiled down to: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t open your goddamn mouth. And so far, both had adhered to this golden rule, filling the car with a blessed, if oppressive, silence. But it was likely only a matter of time before one of them bumped elbows with the other, or made eye contact, and opened their mouth like cracks of burnt and blackened rock giving way to overflowing magma. 

It had been a tough ride for them all. Owens, Pru and Z had been working with each other for a long time. For Owens in particular, humour was a coping mechanism that helped him to relax. It was how he was able to remain focussed and rid himself of any anxiety or fear that came with the pressure of being known as “one of the best shots in the League of Assassins.” Even Z missed his occasional quips and the bickering that do often occurred between Owens and Pru, but there was no helping it. It wasn't worth the risk, even to test the waters. 

Z guessed that if it had just been Tim Drake with them, a little banter would have been allowed to slide, or at least silently tolerated. But with Jason Todd here, any banter had the potential to escalate into a full on fight, and they didn’t have the time for that. In light of this, Owens had, other than the occasional joking side-comment aimed at Pru, kept his head outside where no damage could be done. 

‘How are we doing,’ Z addressed Tim, slowing the car down as they finally came under the encroaching shadow of the cliffs. 

‘We can walk from here,’ Tim replied.

‘You mean  _ climb _ ?’ Owens said, sitting in between Pru and Jason as Z brought the car to a stop. He grimaced staring up at the giant amorphous mass of darkness that lay in front of them. ‘Fair warning though: I'm not the best with heights.’

‘That’s not a problem because you and Prudence won't be coming.’

Pru and Owens blinked at him, Pru’s tight frown twisting into a scowl.

‘We’re not?’ Owens said slowly, giving Z a look that meant the question was really directed towards him and not Tim Drake. 

Z gave Owens a stiff shake of his head, lips pressed together. 

_ This is the first I'm hearing of this, _ the look said.  _ But just cooperate.  _

‘Z and I will be going up into the caves,’ Tim clarified, unbuckling his seatbelt and switching the navigator off for a moment. ‘Jason will stay behind and keep an eye on the two of you.’

‘What the bloody hell do you mean by that?’ Pru growled, now livid and visibly burning with unsuppressed anger..

‘What he means,’ Jason said beside her, ‘is that you’re all murdering assassins with no morals who can’t be trusted to even sit in a car without getting up to some trouble.’

‘Like hell I’m going to let myself be babysat by this prick!’ the Brit spat at Z, pointing a finger at Jason, who seemed both unperturbed by it and yet dangerously close to snapping someone's neck.

‘Pru.’ Z said in warning, frowning. 

‘You’ll do whatever the fuck you’re told to do,’ Jason countered, his voice low. ‘Or I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap.’ 

‘Jason…’ Tim exhaled, rubbing his forehead as if he were fighting back a migraine. His tone carried just a hint of what sounded like rebuke, and Jason bristled at it immediately.

The magma broke through the surface.

Jason Todd was the first out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him and stalking a few feet away before taking a visibly deep breath of the night air. After a moment's hesitation spent staring straight ahead at seemingly nothing, Tim stepped out and went after him to fix the damage, to coax, to calm, to insist. Z watched him as he stood there, listening to Jason rant at him, waving his arms and pointing at the three assassins in the car. 

Tim Drake looked very tired. 

‘We should have killed him when we had the chance,’ Pru said between gritted teeth. ‘Would have saved us a load of trouble.’

‘And I probably shouldn’t have agreed to take you as my mentee all those years ago, Prudence,’ Z returned in a measured, inconsequential sort of tone. ‘It would have saved  _ me _ a lot of trouble.’ 

Owens chuckled lightly, grunting when Pru elbowed him violently in the ribs. 

‘Remember that the Master has commanded us to bring him Jason Todd… alive,’ Z continued with emphasis, his smile fading as he checked his guns and fit them into their holsters. Prudence and Owens sat in the back, listening to him attentively. ‘Do not provoke or underestimate him. He is  _ not _ like the others. He may be adhering to certain boundaries for Timothy’s sake right now, but it’s just a matter of time before he crosses one of them. And I don’t want  _ you _ to be the reason for that, Prudence.’

Pru muttered her concession and Owens nodded and began systematically  cleaning his sniper of dust and sand and grit.

Z looked out into the desert towards the two silhouettes that stood on the sand dune beyond. Tim reached out and put two hands on Jason’s shoulders and said something earnestly, holding his gaze. He was too far away for Z to be able to read his lips, but he saw Jason give Tim the smallest of nods. Then Tim’s hands returned to his side, and they started back across the uneven dunes.

Z opened the front door and stepped out just as Tim reached the car, Jason following behind him reluctantly and pulling on his red helmet. Jason Todd climbed up onto an elevated boulder, leaning his elbow on his propped-up knee as he watched Pru and Owens cover the armoured vehicle with a camo tarp, like a hawk.  

‘Everything okay?’ Z asked carefully, crossing his arms and trying to hold Tim’s gaze.

Tim met his eyes for a split-second before reaching into the car to grab his bo staff and the navigator. 

‘Yeah,’ he said, not even making an attempt at humour or to sound convincing as he turned away and began to walk towards the jagged cliffs. ‘Let’s go.’ 

Z sighed, closing his eyes briefly before mustering his resolve. He gave Pru and Owens a pointed look, raising his eyebrow in a way that said “be good” before following after Tim. Hoping and praying that no one did anything to antagonise the Red Hood while the two main voices of reason were gone. 

They started up the rocky cliffside in silence, focussed on their footing as slippery slates of rock went tumbling down the incline behind them. 

Z studied Tim’s back as they climbed. His narrow shoulders were outlined by the dim light of the moon and stars that shone brightly in the dark desert sky above them, muscles straining as he pulled himself up to the next natural ledge cut into the mountain. 

Z watched, and decided then and there that Timothy Drake was a blatant contradiction of himself. 

It wasn’t simply a matter outer-shell and inner-core, Z had seen plenty of men like that. Tim was different. In his current state he was fluid, like a rushing river that couldn’t decide if it wanted to chart a new course on its own or rejoin the ocean. He was constantly shifting between softness and hardness, inner and outer, rigidness and subtleties, wild risks and controlled plans. 

Tim was at battle with himself. With his values and his past and his future, grappling with questions that had no concrete answers, drifting in a grey realm of possibility, a nether limbo-esque world where everything and yet nothing was inscribed onto the two twin stones cradled in strong arms as they were brought down from Mt. Sinai. 

And Z knew all too well what that felt like. 

‘The cave entrance should be straight ahead,’ Tim said, breaking the silence with something other than their heavy breathing. ‘They were excavating it but put the project on hold because the war was getting too close.’

‘Much more than excavation projects have been put on hold because of this war,’ Z responded sombrely as they continued to climb. 

‘Didn’t think a Leaguer would give a crap, to be honest.’

‘About innocent blood being spilled? I may be an assassin, Timothy, but I do have some sense of honour.’

Tim said nothing for a long moment, not looking back, but Z could tell he was sorting through a rush of thoughts and snap-reactions to his statement.

‘A lot of people would disagree,’ Tim said. A statement, a fact that was devoid of his own inner judgements and feelings. 

‘Do you?’ Z asked him simply, unconcerned with his attempt to dance around the real issue. 

Tim didn’t answer him. He grunted as he lifted himself onto the next shelf and paused there, crouching.

‘Here it is.’ 

Z looked up to where Tim was standing, framed by the cave opening. He fished in his utility belt for the tactical flashlight he had carried with him and held it poised in one hand, the other holding on to his bo staff firmly. 

He was hesitating, holding his breath, bracing himself.

‘Timothy,’ Z addressed him from where he hung on the mountainside, the cold wind whistling in his ears, and Tim looked back towards him. ‘Whatever is or isn’t in that cave, I am right behind you.’

A spasm of unreadable emotions crossed the boy’s face and then, just like that, they were gone, hidden behind a curt nod and tight frown. 

Tim disappeared into the darkness. 

Z climbed up the remaining steps, and heaved himself up onto the ledge where the cave entrance sat, standing and allowing the suffocating shadows to swallow him as he went in after Tim. 

Suddenly, the blinding light of Tim’s flashlight filled the cave and Z had to shield his eyes for a moment with a wince. Blinking, Z allowed himself to adjust to the sudden shifts in lighting and took in the inside of the cave: the abandoned digging tools, the wooden posts and ropes that marked off areas for excavation. The cave was deeper and taller than it looked from the outside, even with the bright light of the flashlight, Z couldn’t make out the roof of the cave.

Z’s eyes settled on Tim, standing on the far side of the cave, his flashlight pointed at some markings on the wall that his body was blocking. Z approached him slowly and came to a stop beside him.

‘Well I’ll be damned…’ he breathed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

Etched into the wall of the cave was a bat symbol. 

It’s lines were smooth and sophisticated… but old. Ancient, even. Even without dating tests, it did not look faked, but appeared to be from the same era as the rest of the cave paintings that littered the wall. They danced across Z’s vision in anamorphic, distorted images of snorting beasts with horns as he stared at it, wondering at what the implications of that one little painting would mean.

‘I thought, I thought I was going insane.’

Z turned to look at Tim Drake and watched him as he reached out to touch the edge of the bat symbol, running his fingers across the delicate pigments, a sharp breath escaping him.

‘They all told me I was going insane. That I was just grieving,’ Tim continued, his voice trembling with indiscernible emotions. ‘Even after the fossil I just, kept doubting myself. But with the paintings, the fossil, and now this? The evidence is almost indisputable…’ 

It was less a sense of vindication that Z saw in Tim. In that moment, Tim Drake seemed more relieved than anything else. Relieved, and filled with wonder. Such wonder and glee and curiosity and excitement, that he actually seemed his age for once. 

‘How do you feel, Tim Drake?’ Z said as he continued to observe him, resisting the urge to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder, to celebrate with him.

Tim said nothing in return.

He simply smiled.

* * *

‘Oi. Arsehood. They comin’ down yet or what?’

Jason was tugged out of his uneasy thoughts as he stared intently towards the cave entrance where he had lost sight of Tim and Z. They had been in there for almost an hour according to Owens, who was keeping track, and all three of them were getting antsy. 

His nerves were so on edge that he had finally taken off his helmet, taking deep breaths of the cool night air in an attempt to calm down. Though the attempt was made significantly more difficult by the glaring 20-something-year-old Brit who had been consistently throwing muttered profanities in his general direction and was now scowling up at him impatiently. 

‘Has anyone ever told you that you were very poorly named, Prudence?’ Jason shot finally back, resorting to vocal forms of combat.

‘Yes,’ Owens spoke up for her. ‘Many times.’

‘Shut your bloody mouth, Owens.’ Pru growled at him. 

Jason opened his mouth, preparing to see how much he could antagonise and insult Pru without starting a fire-fight, when he suddenly caught sight of the two figures that had appeared outside the cave. 

Owens and Pru grew silent as they followed Jason’s gaze and scrambled up from where they had been sitting, hands resting on their guns out of instinct. All three held their breaths in tense expectation.

Pru screwed up her nose, frowning. ‘Is he… is he,  _ smiling? _ ’

‘Jesus fucking Christ…’ Jason muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

‘He’s smiling.’ Pru confirmed, throwing her hands up with a snort. ‘Well that’s just  _ bloody _ brilliant. We’ve been standing out here freezing our balls off for the better part of an hour, and he’s up there smiling away! Cheeky little cunt. We get some kind of bonus for this, right?’

‘Why would we?’ Owens responded lightly, his posture relaxing as he leaned against his sniper. ‘I don’t get a bonus for having to listen to your—’

Jason and Pru both spun around in horror as Owens was suddenly cut off. 

The gleaming tip of a sword, now dripping with blood, protruded from Owen’s chest. A long drawn out sound escaped his lips as he gagged on his own lifeblood, dribbling down his chin. He crumpled to the ground, his arms and legs turned in an awkward way, eyes rolling up to reveal the lifeless whites.

_ Dead. _

Owens’ killer stood crouched over him, a wide smirk spread across his face as he rose and brandished his two swords by his side, and Jason froze up as he found himself staring back into two beady eyes that hungered for more.

His mind immediately wandered back to the black widow spider he had found that one summer in the grounds of the Manor, weaving its web and scuttling up the side of the wall to wait for its prey. He remembered the sickening fear mixed with excitement as he stared at the red marks on its bulbous underbelly, the long legs that scurried across stone, its body so black it looked like shining, poisoned onyx. 

And Jason remembered thinking about death. 

‘OWENS!’ 

Z’s voice echoes from the cliff in a thunderous yell, and Jason's mind snapped back into focus, racing as he slowly pulled out his custom-made knife from the sheath attached to his thigh. 

‘Please…’ the killer spoke at last, his voice sickening, more a hiss than anything else, his mouth fixed in a wide grin. ‘Try to put up more of a fight, assassins.’

‘You’re fucking dead, you bastard!’ Pru roared, eyes burning with rage. ‘Do you hear me?! You’re—’

‘Pru! Wait!’ Jason shouted, pulling his helmet on as he leapt down from the rock where he had been sitting and sprinted towards them. 

But he was too late.

Even as Pru charged at the killer, he moved towards her with fluid speed, nothing more than a shadowed blur rippling across the sand dune. One of his curved knives lashed out through the darkness, cutting through air and flesh as Pru fell to her knees, clutching at her throat. 

The other blade slashed at Jason, and the clang of metal-on-metal sang through the desert as Jason parried the blow with his own knife. He jumped back, breathing hard, poised to parry again, but the killer stood there and cocked his head at him curiously the two blades glinting in the moonlight.

‘The Red Hood,’ he mused. ‘You are not on my list.’

‘Maybe I should be,’ Jason said, reaching for his gun with his free hand. His fingers attempted to clasp around the trigger but suddenly grew stiff. ‘Maybe, I…’

Confused, Jason looked down at them and saw that his whole hand was now trembling violently, heart rate accelerating, vision going blurry in front as the desert floor rushed up to his face.

‘Hood!’ Tim’s voice carried across the valley as he and Z ran towards the bloodbath. 

Jason could hear the clash of Tim’s bo staff with the knives as a pair of strong arms pulled him over to his back. A sharp needle plunged into his skin, cool liquid rushing into veins and Jason gasped for air as his lungs reopened.

‘I’ve given you an antivenom, it should start working immediately,’ Z said, his voice void of emotion as he crouched over him.

‘Pru,’ Jason croaked, already beginning to regain movement in his hands again, his fingers gripped around his gun tightly. ‘Go help her.’

Z hesitated, eyes darting from Tim and the killer, locked in combat, to his teammate that lay on the ground, bleeding out, a low spluttering noise barely audible over the sounds of combat.

‘Are you sure.’ Z said, though his mind was already made up. 

Jason scowled at him in response as Z helped him to sit up, shrugging off the assassin’s steadying hold.

‘Go!’ he snapped, clinging on to his guns and clumsily attempted to load them. 

Z left him, and Jason stumbled to his feet, breathing heavily. Everything had gone to shit far too quickly, and Tim was still recovering from his injuries. He shouldn't be left to fight by himself, let alone take on a highly well-trained hired killer. 

‘Red, get down!’ he yelled at Tim as he stumbled up, cocking both his guns. 

Tim followed his cue and jumped out of the way just as Jason released a barrage of bullets on the killer. They achieved his main aim, which was separating Tim from those likely poisoned blades and giving them time to come up with a plan of counterattack together. 

_ Together, dammit. We said we would do this together from here on _ . 

The killer looked at them both, his frown deepening in apparent frustration.

‘Neither of you are on my list,’ he said, slowly, his tone filled with both distaste and disappointment. ‘My prey lies elsewhere.’

‘We get it,’ Jason quipped, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Tim. ‘You love lists.’ 

‘You want your prey, you’ll have to go through us first,’ Tim warned him, brandishing his bo staff. 

Jason wasn't sure if he should cringe at that line or smile at the new sense of energy that carried across in Tim’s voice.

‘Patience little assassins,’ the killer sneered, and Jason exchanged a look with Tim. ‘The Widower will give you your death soon enough.’

His fingers opened around the hilts of his knives, allowing tiny black balls to roll into the sand in front of them. The smoke bombs exploded in a dark, hazy cloud, hiding the grinning Widower’s beady eyes in the fog as he slipped away.

Jason and Tim coughed against the smoke that filled their lungs. Jason’s helmet filtered toxins and poisonous gases, but not smoke, and he gasped as he felt his throat close up again, eyes watering with memories of another night spent in the desert, choking on smoke. 

His mind clenched with the nightmarish memories while Tim sped after the Widower, shouting something behind him, and in the panicked flurry of that moment, Jason made a snap decision. 

He fumbled for his gun even as his breath got caught, even as it came out in short, rattling heaves. Swearing, stumbling across hills of sand, he took out the round of rubber bullets and replaced them with a new magazine, clicking it into place firmly and scanning the vicinity for Tim. 

Instead, he found Z’s green eyes, widened in shock where he sat, crouched beside Pru and holding a compression to her neck, but looking behind him. 

Instead, he found the Widower’s sickly grin, leering with amusement as he stepped back with only one of his curved knives in hand. 

Instead, he found the Widower’s other knife, embedded into red Kevlar and soft flesh that was bleeding out even as a gloved hand clutched the sight where the blade dug into it. 

‘The Council of Spiders thanks you for your participation in the game,’ the Widower said. 

Jason took aim as Tim fell to the ground on his knees, and had fired before he lay crumpled to the desert floor. 

Jason Todd was a marksman, and his aim was true. The bullet pierced through skin and cracked bone and muscles and veins as it tore through the Widower’s brain; before he could say another word, before he could even think about attacking Z and Pru again, before he could do any more damage, before he could cross another name off of his list.

All Jason could hear were his own low, shallow breaths as he held the gun still cocked in his two hands. He watched the Widower fall, and fall, and fall, as if in slow-motion, that old familiar weight settling on his chest even as his mind felt no guilt. The body hit the ground with a thump, dust settling around it, and Jason stood weakly, muscles still struggling against the venom, screaming at him to stop as he allowed the gun to fall to his side, and moved towards the smell of blood. He reached out to roll Tim over from his side to his back, and stared long and hard at the gaping, angry wound. 

‘I knew I was right,’ Tim’s weak, distant voice spoke from the ground. ‘I knew…’

_ Weak.  _

_ Fading _ .

Jason tore the cowl off of Tim’s pale face, and brushed the strands of long hair from his forehead. Beads of sweat rolled down the bridge of Tim’s nose as his eyes rolled, unfocused, towards the starry sky.  

‘I thought I would die as Robin,’ Tim said to no one.

‘You didn't die in Berlin,’ Jason seethed at the boy, pressing his hands against the blood that was bubbling up from around metal, ‘and you're  _ not _ going to die now.’

His voice caught, hitched in his throat in a horrible, pathetic way as Jason realised that Tim wasn’t that much older than he had been. 

_ When he had died.  _

‘How bad is it?’ Z said beside him, not bothering to hide the fear concern that filled his tone as he reached over and took Tim’s pulse.

‘He’s out cold. The knife might have pierced an organ I, I can’t tell for sure.’

Z pulled his arm back, looking at Tim with a dark expression. 

‘We don't have time. We need move and get him out of the open air before we attempt to extract the blade.’

‘Call Ra’s,’ Jason pressed, feeling the desperation building up in his chest. ‘Tell him—’

‘Our communications have been jammed. We have no choice but to drive back to the city before more of them,’ Z nodded towards the Widower, ‘show up to finish the job. Our hotel there has likely been compromised. We need somewhere safe.’

Jason wrapped a cloth around Tim’s abdomen, around the blade, in an effort to slow the bleeding, his hand forming a fist in the sand. 

‘The Wayne Enterprises Tower,’ he said. ‘It’s as safe as we’ll get.’

Z nodded. ‘Then let's move. And Jason?’

Jason met his tired eyes as Z held his gaze, firm and steady even as the pain of loss seeped out from the wrinkles on his face. 

‘You did the right thing,’ he told Jason.

‘No.’ Jason said, lifting Tim in his arms. ‘No, I didn’t.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that have stuck with this fic in spite of a two-month silence and the most erratic posting of chapters known to mankind and fandom: just know that I love and appreciate you beyond what mere words can express. 
> 
> I'm not giving up on this fic. I fully intend to finish it no matter how long it takes.
> 
> (Also HEY-O guess who started to really like Z and decided not to kill him ages ago. Heh. All according to plan.... poor Owens though :( I kinda like him too and will likely do a spin-off chapter or mini-series with the Three Amigos. The Threesome. The Three Stooges. The Three Musketeers.... I can't think of anymore references.)


	11. Chapter 11

The darkness was all Tim could feel. Every pain, every desperate thought and fear and feeling of hope that he had so eagerly embraced in the moments before gave way to it, opened itself up, too weak to fight back.  

It invaded every corner of his subconscious, surged through his veins, thicker than blood. It felt vast and heavy as space; like that scene from Apollo 13, the nightmare-sequence when the astronaut’s tether to the spaceship gets cut and he gets sucked out into the void of space. It pressed against his lungs and chest, like he was plunging down into unknown depths, the sea swallowing him whole. Until he was no more.

He became empty in that darkness. In a cruel twist of fate, that fourteen-year-old-boy who had played in the shadows and always begged to become one had been granted his wish. He faded, willingly, blending into nothingness, and made peace with the reality that no one would think to miss him now that he was gone.

He wondered if he was dead, or dying until he realised that dead and dying people don't wonder, they _know_.

Alive people think about how they really shouldn't be alive. About how cold they are. About how everything hurts like hell. About how _damn, whatever I’m laying on is really_ _hard_.

Tim heard himself groan as he tried to move limbs, eyes blinking as they fought against the hazy darkness and squinted into a familiar dull glow, green and writhing like a snake in smoking tendrils across his vision.

 _Oh god…_ his stomach clenched as he focussed on the ninjas that stood in the foreground, guarding the green of the Lazarus Pit, staring at him. _I’ve been ressurected. The League of Assassins took my dead body and threw me into the same pit that Ra’s al Ghul has been using for centuries. Into the same pit that I decided I wouldn’t use for my own parents._

And suddenly, the anger and fear was surging up like a rising tide, driving him forward with a yell.

_Bastards._

His leg whipped out and caught one of the ninjas straight in the jaw. Mind racing with questions of insanity and the pain of life and wondering why no one was fighting back as he caught a ninja in a chokehold and kicked another, yanking his sword away. He raised the sheathed sword in attack, prepared to batter the others who were moving towards him to a living pulp, when a strong hand grabbed ahold of his wrist.

‘Timothy, stop!’

‘I trusted you,’ Tim spat, yanking his arm away from Z and stumbling back, glaring at the older man. ‘I trusted you, and you let them throw me into that godawful pit and bring me back from the dead, and… and–’

‘ _Nobody_ was thrown in the pit,’ Z continued, holding his ground, but Tim could hear the cold anger rising in his voice. ‘Not you, not Pru… not Owens. You did _not_ die. But you will soon if you don’t sit down and let us fix your stitches, which you have just ripped open.’

Tim opened his mouth to retort but stopped, looking down at his bandaged stomach and the patches of red that were now seeping through.

‘Ah.’

The pain finally registered in a sharp cutting wave that sparked at the end of nerves, rushing through him like a wave. Z noticed, stepping forward and, firmly holding Tim by the shoulders, led him back to the crude stone “operating table” he had been laying on.

‘Pru and Owens,’ he began hesitantly as Z sat him down, ‘are they…?’

‘Owens is dead,’ Z said. ‘Pru is recovering from her own surgery. She lost her larynx. Lie down.’

Tim allowed Z to push him down to the stone surface and grimaced as the pain in his abdomen intensified. ‘I feel like I’ve lost something too.’

‘Your spleen. You were lucky it was only that. If it weren’t for Jason Todd, none of us would be alive.’

Tim started up halfway even as a masked medic that had appeared by the table attempted to unwrap his bandages. ‘Where’s Jason?’

‘Lie. Down.’ Z said, losing his patience as he and the medic forced Tim back down. He held him there, but did not meet his eyes. ‘Jason Todd is safe. That’s all you need to know for now.’

‘How did we get out of there alive? That assassin… did Jason–?’

‘ _I_ killed the Spider. Now stay down and stop asking questions.’

Tim felt the fight drain out of him in one long exhale. The tension and fear that had been building up in his chest in that one simple question, the unspoken. Now he felt ashamed for having doubted Jason. He lay there, his eyes closed as the medic injected him with a local anaesthetic.

As the wound was cleaned and stitch-by-stitch closed up again, Tim snuck a glance at Z, leaning against the cave wall, his arms crossed as he stared straight ahead into nothing with a dark, brooding expression. It was hard to be angry at Z for killing. For probably saving their lives. Black ink dripped into a glass of grey, murky watercolours, and Tim accepted that there was nothing else that could have been done in that situation. That there was no helping it when assassins killed each other. So long as _they_ didn’t compromise.

So long as it wasn’t Jason who had done the deed.

He turned his face back up to the ceiling and hid behind the back of his arm, trying to shut away the dizziness and nausea.

‘I’m sorry about Owens,’ he ventured into the silence. And he meant it.

Z did not answer, and for a moment Tim wasn’t sure he had heard him. He looked back at Z and was shocked to see that his face was visibly torn with pain.

‘Owens was a good man,’ Z said finally, his voice quiet. ‘I know that may sound like an odd thing to say about an assassin. But it is true. He would do anything to protect his teammates and truly believed we were working towards making the world a better place.’

Tim said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together, unwilling to vocalise the fact that he actually believed Z. Unwilling to deal with the repercussions of the idea that Owens, the League Assassin who had worked under Ra’s al Ghul and murdered god knows how many people, had had his own sense of moral direction and hopes for the world.

Utensils clattered in a metal pan as the medic stripped the disposable gloves off of his hands. He said nothing, but gave a stiff bow to Z and promptly left. Tim inspected the fresh bandages around his stomach for a moment before he attempted sitting up again.

‘I want to see Jason,’ he said, wincing as he pulled his already mended red top over his head. He swore when one of  his arms got stuck, and paused to breathe against the dull ache in his chest, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Ow.’

He felt a hand on his shoulder and started, surprised to find Z standing right beside him. Z paused, patiently waiting for Tim to relax his muscles before helping to guide his other arm gently and slowly into the sleeve.

‘I’m not sure if that’s possible right now, Timothy.’

Tim’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Jason is currently being held as a prisoner under Ra’s al Ghul’s direct orders,’ Z said in a low voice. He shook his head before Tim could speak again. ‘I do not know why. But I do know that this has been a part of our plan for a long time.’

Tim’s mind was suddenly overwhelmed, realising that Jason’s misgivings and general hatred towards Ra’s and the League hadn’t been unfounded. He had known.

‘When you bombed our hotel back in Paris,’ Tim said, his fist clenched. ‘You had meant to kill him.’

‘Our orders to kill on sight were amended after Paris,’ Z held out Tim’s utility belt, cape and cowl. ‘I’m sorry. It’s out of my control… but I can at least get you a minute with Jason Todd.’

‘You’re right,’ Tim said, his gaze cold as he met Z’s eyes. ‘It _is_ the least you can do.’

 

Both of them were silent as they walked through the cold, echoing corridor that lead down to the detainment area. Torches lined the walls, casting long shadows across their faces as they went by, and any ninjas that passed them seemed to blend into the shadows, only their hardened eyes visible through their masks.

Walking was hard, but Tim did his best not to show it. Not very well, it seemed; Z’s pace was steady and he kept a careful watch over Tim out of the corner of his eye. So Tim gave up trying to put up a front, and paused a few times to catch his breath, bracing against the rough stone of the underground passage and leaning his head over his chest. Z always waited beside him until he was ready to carry on.

When they reached their destination, Z told him to wait as he strode forward to speak with the guards in a hushed, but commanding voice. Tim tried to read his lips, squinting in the darkness, but couldn’t catch enough to make heads or tails out of it. The exchange seemed to drag on, and Z hesitated for a moment before motioning for Tim. He ventured forward as the fingerprint and password controlled door was opened by the guards, but was stopped as Z placed a hand on his chest.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Any more will put lives at risk.’

Tim nodded in consent, and then followed Z through the door.

They passed a series of prison units, most empty, others housing hollow faces with skin stretched across bone and sinew. Tim stared at Z’s back, shamefully avoiding meeting eyes with whatever victims were doomed to their fates under Ra’s al Ghul’s orders. He swallowed back whatever it was his stomach was trying to regurgitate, and forced his mind to become blank; there would be plenty of time to plan a prison break later.

Z stopped at the last prison unit and gestured towards it, stepping back to give them some privacy, though he was still within ear-shot. Tim peered into the shadows, his hands clenching around the rusting metal bars as he made out Jason’s form.

‘Jason.’

The archaic chains around his wrists and ankles keeping him tethered to the wall of the cave rattled as he stirred, and his dark face looked more black and blue it seemed than anything else. The corner of his mouth turned up in a cocky smile that didn't seem fazed in the least by their surroundings.

‘Glad you decided to stick around,’ Jason said, relief carrying through over his humour.

‘Thanks to you, I’ve been told,’ Tim returned with a wry grin.

Jason frowned, a darkened look passing through his eyes as he studied Tim carefully. ‘Tim, look, I…’

‘Don’t, Jason,’ Tim interrupted him, tired and not in the mood for pointless blame-shifting. ‘At the end of the day, assassins kill. There was nothing either of us could have done.’

Jason opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it, sitting there in the heavy silence for a long moment. In the background, Z shifted his weight and Tim glanced back at him for a moment. Something seemed off but he didn't know what.

‘How’s Tam holding up?’ Jason said at last.

‘Tam?’ Tim’s heart skipped a beat and he looked directly at Z. ‘Tamara Fox is here?’

‘We hid in the Wayne Suite, Tim,’ Jason spoke up before the assassin could respond. ‘It was the only place I could think of that would be temporarily safe from the Council of Spiders. I didn’t know the League was going to raid the place and take Tam with us.’

Tim continued to glare at Z, who sighed and finally spoke for himself.

‘Timothy, I may be a senior League member, but I am not in control of every situation. I have been keeping a careful watch on Miss Fox, ensuring her safety, and will take you to her once you are done here.’

‘I'm not done here until you unlock this damn cell.’

‘As I said,’ Z responded, his jaw clenching, ‘this is out of my control. You will have to consult the White Ghost on this matter.’

‘I'm not consulting anyone. If Ra's thinks he has the upper hand here–’

‘Tim,’ Jason cut in over him. ‘The most important thing right now is making sure Tamara’s safe.’

Tim’s knuckles turned white as he turned away from Z, too angry to think logically about anything, and yet unsure what it was or he it was he was angry at. ‘I'll get you out of here Jason,’  Tim said firmly.

Jason nodded. ‘I know. Don't worry about me too much. I've been through worse, I'll be fine.’

Z came closer, waiting to escort him out, and Tim let go of the bars and went to leave.

‘Tim?’ Jason called after him, his voice echoing through the cavern as Tim turned back and met his gaze. ‘Tam’s lived a sheltered life, but she's tougher than she looks. She can take the truth. We owe her that much at least.’

* * *

Tamara stumbled into the lavishly decorated bathroom for the third time in the past hour and hung her head over the toilet bowl to wretch. Nothing came up, but her stomach wouldn’t stop turning, wouldn’t stop insisting to her brain that it had to rid itself of what Tam was now worried may be her last meal, ever.

 _Maybe I can barricade myself in here and have a stand-off when the ninjas come to get me_ , Tamara thought to herself, using a wad of toilet paper to wipe saliva away from the corner of her lips.

She told herself she was being dramatic, she told herself that she was worth more alive than dead. She told herself that if Tiffany were in her place, she would follow the directions their father had taught them in the case of a kidnapping, when they had sat down in huge leather office chairs, wide-eyed five and seven-year-olds, and Lucius Fox had held their gaze over his desk and said with all the weight and gravitas of a CEO:

“Stay calm, stay compliant, stay smart.”

But her mind was otherwise occupied and unavailable to listen to her father’s voice, too jittery and panicked to reason with her fear. Not that there was much reason to be found in this whole situation. Her mind kept seeing blood. Tim Drake’s blood. Spilled across the floor, across the white sheets of her borrowed bed in the Wayne Suite.

She had come in from a late-night escapade to the vending machine down the hall, in desperate need of a Snickers, especially after having to convince her father that she would be back with Tim Drake soon enough. The half-eaten chocolate bar had dropped out of her hand, wrapper and all, as she took in Tim’s pale face, the sword, the blood.

She hadn’t screamed. They always do that in movies and she didn’t want to fit the stereotype; a thought that actually seemed stupid in hindsight. Maybe she should have screamed. But then Jason Todd, bloody, beaten and bruised, had stepped out of the bathroom with a wet blood-soaked towel and had urged her to calm down.

Jason Todd, who was presumed dead by the entire world and had stood in front of her very much alive, and put steadying hands on her shoulders as he spoke to her.

 _If you want to save Tim, please, trust me Tamara_.   

His voice had been firm, but gentle. As if he understood all the emotions she had been feeling, and he acknowledged them. It had grounded her, to look into his deep brown eyes and somehow know that she would be okay.

But that feeling was short-lived, and everything after had been a haze. A messy, convoluted haze in her memory where only highlights became clear.

Ninjas storming the room. Jason Todd moving to defend, reaching for a gun that had been on the tabletop. The ninjas overpowering him quickly and slamming his head to the carpet, now rusted with blood. The undead boy yelling as they had held him down, injecting him with something that made him go limp. A man who looked both concerned and enraged talking in hushed tones with one of the ninjas as the others cuffed Jason Todd.

Tim Drake being carried away carefully, leaving a trail of red behind.

Tamara had felt the nausea kick in first then, her breathing labored, vision going wonky so that she had to shrink against the wall to balance herself, to hide.

I’m going to die. She remembered thinking.

Then the man from before had crouched in front of her and spoke to her.

‘Tamara Fox. My name is Zeddmore Washington, I have no intention to hurt you. But for your own safety, and for Tim Drake and Jason Todd’s sake, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us.’

Tamara’s eyes had darted to the open door, hoping her pestering guards were close enough to hear her scream.

They were close enough all right. But they were beyond hearing anything ever again.

More blood. Suits slashed open and the carpet stained with it.

Tamara hadn’t been in a position to argue, so she had allowed herself to be led away, numb, trembling.

 _Stay calm, stay compliant, stay smart_.

She had been blindfolded for the entire journey to whatever secret lair these ninjas had. She had no way to call for help, the only two people who might be able to help her were out cold or injured, and there was something very off about this place.

As she was lead to her chamber by a silent ninja, through stalactite, darkened and grim passageways, she remembered catching sight of Tim Drake being carried into a great cavernous room. A green, eerie light oozed from the cavern, but when she didn’t dare ask about what they were going to do to Tim in that room. She had been locked in a bedroom for hours now with no information, no food, only a pitcher of water that she half feared was poisoned but was reaching a point of dehydration where she didn’t care anymore.

Leaving the toilet, Tamara wandered back to the bed and lay down on it, hugging a pillow to her chest tightly as she shivered. As she lay there in the silence, the feeling of helplessness continuing to press against her chest, she considered her options.

 _I have to get of here on my own_ , she decided, biting her lip. _Or at least find some way to make contact with the outside world._

She stood and, crossing over to the door in the other side of the room, placed her hand on the cold handle, working up the courage, preparing herself to open it… when the door suddenly opened to reveal the pale, surprised face of Tim Drake.

‘Sorry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I should have knocked.’

 _‘Fuck…’_ Tamara breathed out, wilting down into a crouching position on the floor.

She stayed there as Tim shut the door behind him, his back pressed against it as he waited for her to have her moment. Tam stayed there longer than was necessary, hoping that the longer she dragged the silence out the less angry she would be, the less she would yell; but all it did was give her emotions time to reach boiling point. All they needed was a reason to explode, and Tim Drake gave her one.

‘Listen. Tam. I know you’re probably in shock right now, but I need you to stay calm, okay.’

‘“Probably in shock”?’ Tamara whispered in a tumultuous voice, the utter disbelief coming through in a trembling laugh; and Tim must have sensed the storm because she heard him wince. ‘ _“Probably in shock”?!_ Any sane person would be in shock after coming into their hotel room only to find someone bleeding out onto their bed! Any sane person would be in shock if a gang of ninjas kidnapped them and locked them away in a room without any explanation as to what’s going on. So, no. No, I won’t be “okay” until you drop the condescending attitude and give me a goddamn explanation. _Now._ ’

She realised that as her voice had risen, so had she, leaving her mere inches away from Tim Drake’s shocked, stupid face. He shuffled restlessly on the spot as she stepped back and let out a hitching sob, angrily trying to will the tears to stop by pressing her palms into her eyes. She couldn’t help but be ashamed, to wonder if her father would be ashamed, but what more could anyone expect of her? She had never been prepared for “bloodbath and beyond”, let alone being kidnapped by killer ninjas. She had been prepared with a script about ransom. Ninjas didn’t care about ransom.

She felt Tim’s hand touch her shoulder gingerly. She looked at him through her tears.

‘You’re right Tamara,’ he said, his voice tired, relenting. ‘You deserve an explanation.’

‘I deserve the truth, Tim,’ Tamara insisted, even through the thick of emotions.

Tim seemed to hesitate, to grow stiff, but he nodded, scratching the back of his head with a sigh as he gestured towards the bed. ‘Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll explain everything.’


	12. Chapter 12

_ “WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TAKE THE FALL FOR THAT CUNT?!?!” _

Z blinked at the phone that had been shoved violently in his face, reading the text and rubbing his eyes with a strained breath. 

‘Pru. Jason Todd saved both of our lives. It was the least I could do for him in the moment. Tim Drake is not in the position to make logical decisions right now, and the only reason they are still working together is because Jason Todd has refrained from killing. That much is obvious. The moment Tim finds out the truth is the moment he stops negotiating and cooperating, and endeavours to take the world on by himself. Which can only lead to failure. And please stop typing in all-caps. It hurts my eyes.’

Pru’s expression grew wilted as she pulled back her phone, frowning in disgust or confusion or guilt. Z couldn’t quite tell, never could with Pru. For all her expressiveness, it was actually very difficult to identify the varying emotions that so often exploded from within her. Most people assumed she was just angry all the time, but the truth was what lay behind her anger. She hid her hurt and insecurities with anger, she suffocated her fear and protectiveness with anger, she masked her deep yearning for recognition in anger. Today, not even anger could distract Z from the burning sadness they were both feeling.

They sat in silence for a moment, the beeping apparatus measuring Pru’s heartbeat and drip-drop of the IV the only sounds echoing in the cavernous medical unit she had been confined to after her laryngectomy. She looked a pitiful state, bandages wrapped around her neck, eyes bloodshot, the dark circles spread out in bags beneath them and agitated veins pressing against skin. Her skin was blotchy and pale, which Z hadn’t thought possible for an impossibly white Brit, but she had lost a lot of blood. 

_ “i miss owens” _

Z hid his mouth behind his hand, the weariness washing through brittle bone as Pru brought the phone back and typed another line. 

_ “fucking hated the eejit but i miss him fuck me” _

‘I miss him too, Pru,’ Z said quietly. 

Pru regarded him in the silence, her eyes a brewing mixture of emotions, of sadness and pain that bubbled up below the anger. She typed furiously on her phone, and Z looked up at the message.

_ “i fucking knew it would end up like this. you’ve grown too fond of tim drake and now you’re actually worried about what the master plans for him and the other brats.” _

‘It is none of your business what I am or am not worried about,’ Z returned, his voice cold with rankled spite, snapping like a whip. 

Pru recoiled. It seemed to her that he had never been this rattled, this sensitive before, and he himself knew it. It was what had led Z to become such a seasoned, effective assassin: his ability to silence all underlying emotions and desires, giving way to calculative, stoic leadership. Both of them knew exactly where worried, over-sensitive, doubting thoughts and feelings could lead an assassin. They had always been warned against it. In their group of three, it had always been Z doing the warning. Z telling them to reel in their emotions, Z telling them to think logically about the situation, Z telling them to ensure their loyalties were firm and constant; and now, it was Z that was questioning them the most. 

‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ Z said under his breath, addressing the silence. ‘The things I thought I believed in, it’s like they’ve suddenly grown so unstable; like a crumbling bridge. I trusted the League to look after us, to make sure our deaths weren’t in vain. I always dreamt of dying as I protected Ra’s al Ghul, this great man who has lived so long, who has such a vision… but what did Owens die for, Pru? Where was the honour in his death?’

Owens had died in the middle of a wilderness, his blood spilt out over sand, soaked up, absorbed. The only witnesses of his final breath: his two teammates, two strangers, and his killer. It had been cruel. No challenge, no opportunity to defend himself, no warning. Just a cold blade slicing through ribcage, impaling, stealing the life out of him. 

Z clutched his trembling hands in his lap, weakness pressing heavily against the same place the blade had pierced Owens. He felt Pru’s eyes on him, boring into his head until he could avoid them no longer. When he looked up though, Pru was typing on her phone again.

_ “there is no honour in death”  _

And Z shuddered at the message, for they were his own words, spoken to a scowling and chaotic sixteen-year-old girl with a rough British accent and raging temper. So caught up in the League’s enthralling “mission” that she laughed in Z’s face when he questioned her about whether she feared death or not. 

_ The only thing I fear is dying of old age when I'm helpless and weak. I want to go out with my guns blazing. I want it to have been worth it,  _ she had scoffed that day.

And Z had proceeded to beat her to a pulp, his boot pressing her face into the dirt, pushing her beyond mere humiliation just to prove his point as he said those words firmly.

_ There is no honour in death... but there should at least be purpose.  _

Z clenched his fists, no longer trembling, and allowed the anger to wash over him in one strained breath. Pru continued to watch him carefully, staring at him for a long moment before she made a coughing sound to get his attention. He looked up at her phone. 

_ “what will you do” _

The corner of his mouth twitched, amused that she had been around him long enough to know when he was attempting to formulate a plan. 

‘I don’t know. I only know that I am tired of doing nothing. I am tired of having no purpose. But whatever I do, you are under no obligation to follow me, Pru. In fact, I insist that you don’t.’

Pru raised an eyebrow at him and scoffed. 

_ “don’t be fucking daft. wherever you go i go.”  _

Z made to respond when the door opened suddenly. He stood in attention and Pru hid her phone discreetly under the covers as the White Ghost stalked towards them. His ghoulish face was no less hard on the eye than usual, beady red eyes, wrinkled, grey-mottled skin and wolfish teeth peeking out from beneath a purple head scarf. 

‘I see that your recovery is coming along well, Assassin,’ he addressed Prudence, who responded with nod. His voice sounded like Death; rough and rasping, like bare branches rattling in the wind, or nails scraping against a blackboard.

‘She should be ready for combat after another night’s rest,’ Z said, and the White Ghost turned towards him. ‘Though she won’t be able to speak for another few days.’

‘Acknowledged,’ the White Ghost said. ‘We will need all our operatives in order to bring down the Council of Spiders and put an end to this blatant disrespect of Ra’s al Ghul.’

Z said nothing in response to this, his face betraying none of the stabbing anger that he felt embed itself in his chest.

‘Was there anything else?’ he said instead, his voice neutral. Empty.

And the White Ghost stared at him long and hard, to the point where Z suddenly felt as if his every inner thought and doubt were being scrutinised and brought out into the light. But he did not wilt beneath the pressure, his every will and effort focussed on maintaining the loyal, unquestioning facade. 

‘You are needed in the Core for a debriefing on the Spider Council,’ the White Ghost finally said, slowly. ‘If Prudence is able, bring her too.’

‘Understood,’ Z bowed his head in respect and Prudence followed suit.

The White Ghost turned on his heels and left them to the beeping machine.

Pru immediately threw the covers back and ripped off an IV drip, causing Z to massage his forehead with a sigh as she typed on her phone with one hand and attempted to pull on one of her boots with the other.

_ “don’t fuck up z. i don’t want to see your face next to owens in a bloody body bag.” _

‘That goes for you too. If you slow down and give your body time to heal, it will probably end up in a body bag long before mine does,’ he said, but there was a sarcastic fondness to his voice as he leaned over and helped Pru with her boot.

 

While Pru dressed herself, something she had insisted on, Z stood outside in the corridor, staring at the small device in his hand. 

A very long and painstaking inspection of the device had revealed that it was a long-distance information transmitter. The button, once pressed, would send a signal containing a message or coordinates to a second party. And Z already knew who the second party was. 

Again, the look in Jason Todd’s eyes when he had secretly taken it off him in the WE suite entered his mind, a look he had given him before Z had escorted Tim Drake out of the containment unit. It was as if Jason Todd had known, had been able to tell that Z was emotionally compromised, that he was on the brink of making foolish, risky decisions. That he was pliable. 

Z resented it. He resented being seen through. His whole life had been spent conditioning himself to mask his true self and feelings. Z’s mind harkened back to memories of his father, a hardened man who had insisted on a hardened son. His father’s methods for producing those results had been ultimately successful, had taught Z that he should never allow others to see what he was thinking or feeling. Ultimately, Z had his father to thank for sending him down this path, for giving him up to the League and abandoning him to this fate. A heavy hand gripping his shoulder, cold eyes staring down into childish tears without sympathy as he gave Z a word of parting.

_ Don’t trust anyone but yourself, boy.  _

He may have been a disappointment to his father, but he had been nothing but loyal to the League; had gone above and beyond everything that was demanded of him. And it had all meant little to the League. The death of Owens had been the last straw, sent him reeling down an old familiar path that remembered his father’s last words. 

_ Don’t trust anyone but yourself. _

Z breathed in, and out. Then, opening his eyes, his jaw set resolutely, he pressed the button. 

* * *

The cold Gotham wind tugged Stephanie Brown’s cape this way and that as she crouched atop a ventilation pipe. She closed her eyes, inhaling the smell of wet stone, mildew and sewage that seemed to be ever present in this dark, gloomy city. It smelled like home. But it didn’t sound like home until a police siren finally tore through the sky, wailing and echoing off the buildings from a couple of streets down.

‘And so the night begins,’ Stephanie said, her lips quirking in an eager smile as she pulled her mask down over her eyes and shot off her grappling hook. She savoured the feeling of being alone tonight, and by alone, she meant avoiding both the disapproving, hesitant Batman and his gremlin-child. It was still weird having a pint-sized kid who looked like a kindergartner but was fully capable of stabbing you without a second thought for a Robin. She remembered feeling a sense of playful inferiority to Robin when the one behind the mask was Tim; but now she just felt a powerful sense of being in mortal danger whenever Damian glared at her. 

_ Times they are a-changin’.  _

If nothing else, the disapproval of Batman had at least remained consistent. It was the only thing about this whole situation, in fact, that wasn’t foreign to her. The more she thought about it, the more she felt her throat constricting, muscles tensing up as she tried her best to make her damn brain shut up for a second. Maybe being alone right now wasn’t the best thing after all. 

She tapped her comm link as she swung across buildings, and yelled above the wind. ‘Steph Possible here, O. What’s this sitch over at the Museum?’

Over the line, she could hear Barbara wince. ‘Again, you don’t have to  _ shout _ . In fact, shout again, and I’m cutting you off.’

‘Sorry,’ Stephanie said, genuinely apologetic. There were too many things to remember these days what with all the information her college professors were trying to stuff into her head and taking on the sometimes overwhelming responsibility of being Batgirl. ‘Can’t you just put me on speaker?’ 

‘Your shouting would just reverberate throughout the clock tower and probably break my tech,’ Oracle replied, her voice ever dry. 

‘Fair, fair, fair.’

She swung onto one of the gargoyles that overlooked the Gotham City Museum. Eerie lights from displays emanated from crystal windows, the unique semi-domed building with its coloured-glass clock standing out from the skyscrapers that towered over it. 

Stephanie frowned down at it and pulled out her binoculars, half listening to Barbara as she explained the situation. It was probably all very important information, and it wasn’t that she was intentionally being careless; it was just that her mind was positively fried from the day. And the art deco-esque clock was actually really pretty in the night… 

_ #GreatGatsbyvibes…  _

‘–the police are almost there, but seeing as we’re dealing with new criminal meat, it might be best for you to get in there first, suss out the situation and… you’re not listening to a goddamn thing I’m saying are you.’

‘Hm?’ Stephanie said, snapping out of her thoughts as the words of excuse tumbled out. ‘Nah, no, nope. Definitely listening. Holding on to every single word like my very life depends on it.’

‘In this occupation Steph, it really does,’ Barbara said, her tone harsh, weighted. 

Stephanie opened her mouth to respond, preparing to argue back like she always had with Bruce, to stick up for herself like she always had to with Tim, to stake her claim like she had to with Dick and Damian. That familiar feeling of helplessness and insecurity mingled with prickling frustration. No one ever trusted her. No matter what she did to prove herself, no matter how much effort and time, blood, sweat and tears she put into this vigilante gig, someone was always there to tell her she wasn’t good enough. That she was just endangering herself and others.

_ That she, a screw-up, didn’t belong out here.  _

But even as the breathlessness pressed against her lungs, she remembered the time that Barbara was sacrificing to help her. The effort and wisdom and hours that she sacrificed and dedicated to mentoring Stephanie. That little side smile that always translated to  _ “atta girl” _ in her mind. The nights of ordering Chinese take-out after training, the ready, solid patience that persisted even when Stephanie was a terrible, moaning student. 

_ Babs believes in me,  _ Stephanie reminded herself with a small breath.  _ She’s looking out for me because she cares about me, not because she thinks I will fail.  _

‘You’re right, O. I’m sorry,’ she said, brushing a persistent strand of blonde hair out of her mouth and behind her ear as she stood up with hands on her hips; a power pose to help amp herself up. ‘You said this perp’s possibly hit three other Gotham city museums this month?’

‘They meet all the details, I think it’s them. The GCPD’s been after this one for ages. Be careful, they’re pretty slippery.’

‘Well, luckily for them, I am a pro at Slip-n-Slide.’

‘God, make it stop,’ Barbara muttered over the comm, the rustling no doubt the sound of her hair as she massaged her forehead. ‘Just get down there, please?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Stephanie did her best to be stealthy, to do this the right way, to be smart, using the blaring alarm as a sound-cover for when she broke the glass window on the top floor and snuck into the museum. The security guard she almost tripped over was, thankfully, only unconscious, and she ensured he was hidden safely in a storage closet before moving on. 

She crept through the museum, winding around pillars, staying alert and present every step of the way until she reached the mineral exhibit. Sure enough, the blood pendant  – a necklace containing one of the largest known red diamonds in the world – was missing, the outer glass cut through surgically. Stephanie ran her gloved finger along the rim and shone her light at the display case, inspecting it. 

‘They must have set off the sensors on the platform…’ Steph mused.

Babs hummed thoughtfully, incessant typing noises coming through the comm. 

‘They tried to avoid that situation by turning off the power, but the blood pendant had special secondary sensors installed recently that aren't connected to an extraneous power source,’ Oracle’s said as Stephanie moved through the exhibit, the various gemstones and mineral casting shifting colours across glass as her light brushed over them, searching for any signs of the perp’s whereabouts. 

‘They got too big for their britches is what you're saying.’

‘They underestimated my ability to predict their next target.’

Stephanie stopped in her footsteps, adjusting her headset.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘....I said –’

‘Wait,  _ you _ were the one who had the secret sensors installed? You knew they were going to try and steal the blood pendant? Why didn't you say so!’ 

‘I did,’ Barbara responded in a sighing voice. ‘You just didn't listen.’

‘No, no… I mean, why didn't you just tell the museum and the GCPD? Warn them ahead of time? They could have caught the perp off guard, no problem!’

‘Increased security or a public leak would have scared them off. Besides, I thought this would be a good opportunity for you to boost your confidence.’

‘It might... if I can find them,’ Steph grumbled, heading back out into the long abandoned hallway. ‘What if they get away? What's that gonna do to my confidence?’ 

‘The police are surrounding the building outside, they're stuck here for now.’ The sound of loud frenzied typing carried through the comm again, but Stephanie resisted making a comment comparing her own shouting to Miss Mavis Beacon’s typing over here. ‘Check the roof. I'm detecting movement up there through the adjacent building’s cameras.’

‘Big Brother's watching. Hide yo kids, hide yo wife.’ 

‘Can you… not?’ 

Stephanie’s breathing grew heavy, a few exasperated grunts escaping her as she vaulted up the stairs towards the roof. 

‘We need to work on your endurance.’

‘Hey,’ Steph wheezed. ‘I endure you well enough, don’t I?’

Oracle snorted. ‘Touche.’

Reaching the door at last, Stephanie shoved it open, prioritising speed over stealth. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the shadowed, slim silhouette of the perp. The black mask over his face, the glitter of a diamond in his hand…

The other hand moving quickly as it reached for a gun.  

Her heart began to race, that familiar anxiety filling her mind and thoughts. The fear reverberating in her head in four simple words:  _ I can’t do this. _

But though her mind screamed at her to stop, her muscles didn’t hesitate, reacting in the pure adrenaline of the moment and leaping forward. 

A gun fired, but missed as Batgirl expertly dodged the shot, and caught the perp in an arm hold. He yelled out in pain, dropping his gun and stumbling back one step, two steps, holding his arm. Stephanie stepped towards him and knocked him down with a well-aimed kick in the face that rendered him unconscious.  

_ ‘Shit,’ _ Batgirl spat under her breath. as the blood diamond clattered towards the edge of the roof.

‘Language,’ Barbara said sternly, her voice a disapproving frown. ‘Wait. Steph?  _ Steph. _ Don’t you even think about – ’

It was too late. 

Stephanie launched herself off the edge of the museum as the diamond fell, her hair blowing in the wind that rushed up into her face, sharp and cutting. Her eyes watered up, quinting against the cold as she shot off her grappling hook and propelled her body in an swinging arc around the building. Her outstretched hand clasped around the red gem mere feet from the concrete, and a group of cops whooped and cheered as she tumbled in the top-tier of the fountain that graced the front of the museum. 

‘ _ Whew.  _ That was a close call,’ Stephanie rasped, teeth clattering as she stood up from the gross, murky fountain water. She unclasped her hand and grinned at the red diamond with satisfaction before waving it in the air at the cops, prompting a few more cheers and whistles. 

‘I’m getting too old for this,’ Oracle’s gritty voice came through the comm just as Commissioner Gordon walked up to Stephanie, perplexed but vaguely impressed. 

‘Nice catch, Batgirl. Is the perp still inside?’

‘Thanks, Commish. And yeah, he’s up there on the roof, but I doubt he’s going anywhere soon,’ she held out the blood diamond to him and he received it gingerly in his hands.

‘Please tell me we don’t have another Catwoman on our hands,’ he said dryly, raising an eyebrow at her. 

Stephanie grinned, noting how similar his humour was to Babs’. 

‘Thankfully, this one’s not in costume and refrained from revealing his evil plan to crystalise the whole of Gotham in red diamond.’

‘Hallelujah,’ the Commissioner said, his voice dripping with mirthless sarcasm. ‘Well, thanks again. Maybe next time don’t risk your life for a piece of jewelry. It’s not worth it kid.’

Stephanie went to respond but Gordon had already turned to walk away, shouting instructions at various officers who were moving inside to the museum. 

‘He’s right you know, much as it pains me to agree with my own father,’ Oracle said. 

Stephanie sighed and began to walk away. ‘It was a really rare diamond though, and it was sort of my fault it fell off the roof in the first place.’

‘No,’ Barbara’s voice was stern. ‘It was the _ perp’s _ fault for stealing it. We can’t control every single outcome in the field, better to accept that now with the small things before you get to the bigger, heavier situations. Anyways, you did good, Steph. Why don’t you call it a night and go get some homework done.’ 

Stephanie frowned. ‘It’s not even midnight yet. Does the big, bad Bat need any help?’ 

‘He’s also throwing in the towel early, at my insistence.’

‘You mean after hearing your bloodcurdling threats?’

‘I’ll never tell,’ Oracle laughed coyly. ‘Honestly Steph, it’s a real quiet night, the other situations I’ve gotten wind of are under control, and you were out too late last night.’

‘I got a full two hours of beauty sleep, so I have no idea what you’re talking about. But if you insist.’

‘Goodnight, Steph.’

‘’Night, O.’

The comm clicked off and Stephanie stretched her arms above her head, yawning. Truth be told, she had been hoping to avoid studying as much as she could tonight. Midterms had come and gone, and all she wanted was to sleep for a million years and play video games.

_ I need the sleep, and my body needs a break, _ she admitted to herself, rubbing her eyes and considering just taking the bus home tonight.  

The cheap, yellow of the Waffle House sign in front of the bus stop gave her pause, and she stared at it for only a moment before deciding that the answer to “should I have waffles at midnight?” is always and without fail:  _ yes.  _

The bell rang as she opened the door and navigated through the throngs of tipsy college students and late-shift workers grabbing a bite to eat. Waitresses called out orders to chefs in the back and spoke casually to their customers with ready laughter. 

No one blinked an eye at her. It was part of the reason she loved the place so much. Sure, the food wasn’t gourmet. But it was cheap, it was good, and nobody gave a shit. 

One girl drunkenly sauntered over and asked if she could take a selfie, gushing over her hair and costume and being overly intimate as she thanked Stephanie. Steph blushed as the girl cupped warm, soft hands around her face. 

‘Omg. You’re like.  _ The best. _ I dressed up as you for Halloween!’ She looked her up and down with a pensive, flippant look. ‘Batgirl… but sexier.’

_ Ouch. _

‘Sexy just doesn’t really work with the job, but more power to ya,’ Steph said with an awkward laugh, giving the girl a wave as she left to return to her friends. She slapped herself with the huge menu.

_ Lame. Stupid. I need to drown myself in syrup.  _

After ordering a double waffle with chocolate chips and whipped cream, she pulled out her phone and absentmindedly began scrolling through old apps until she came to Candy Crush. Her thumb lingered on it for a moment before hesitantly tapping it, bombarded with brightly coloured candies and scores and the repetitive tunes emanating from the game. She pressed play and ended up staring at the candies as the timer counted down and informed her that she had failed to complete Level 1068. 

Her mind was elsewhere, stuck on memories of Tim lying sprawled on her couch, his hoodie tugged tight around his head, tapping furiously on her phone and swearing under his breath when he failed a level. Stephanie hated the game and had never gotten beyond the first few levels before she had thrown her phone at Tim Drake, who had caught it with his face and then continued playing as “Stephanie Brown.” 

“Stephanie Brown,” who was now a top-ranking player in the Candy Crush Saga global scoreboards. 

‘Double waffles with chocolate chips and your coffee, Batgirl,’ a kind, cheery waitress startled Stephanie out of her thoughts as the plate was set in front of her. 

She shut the app down quickly. 

‘Thanks.’

She poured a liberal amount of syrup over the steaming hot waffles and removed her gloves from her hands before cupping them around the mug of coffee. Steph sighed, breathing in the bitter fragrance, allowing herself a moment to mourn the loss that she had experienced in the last few months. Not just of Bruce, but of Tim, and Cassandra. 

She had gained so much recently, experience, new friends at university, a new mentor, new responsibilities… she hadn’t had much time to miss the things, the people, that were no longer there. 

_ I hope Tim is okay, wherever he is, _ she thought staring at the coffee. His staple. She knew that everyone was worried about him, beneath the routine that was their life now. She wondered if telling them that Jason had reached out to her about Tim was a good idea, if it would give them some peace of mind. But then again, Jason Todd was a sensitive topic that she did  _ not _ want to broach with Dick, or Barbara, or Alfred. 

She had enough on her plate as it was, they all did. 

Steph’s phone suddenly began buzzing, alerting her that she had received a message. Steph took a bite of waffle as she pulled it back out of her pocket, but stopped chewing, blinking in confusion at the message that seared itself into her already tired eyes. 

Her heart dropped.

* * *

Glass clattered to the dirty laminated Waffle House table as Batgirl knocked over a bottle of syrup, the golden ooze pooling on the cheap plastic table. She ignored the baffled calls from her waitress and burst out the door, disappearing into the dark night that enveloped her.

The waitress sighed, mumbling somewhat defeatedly under her breath about the “goddamn vigilantes, always in a rush.” She shook her head as she retrieved a ten dollar bill from the table, the corner of which was soaked with syrup, and began to wipe up the mess. 


End file.
